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The young man waiting the window tables at Le Boulevard Vert is dark and slim-wristed, with a trace of some obscure accent that he chases around the French names of the dishes.
He is exceedingly polite, and quietly but firmly opinionated about the wine list, and before placing the water glasses has already identified which members of the party are left-handed.
Jean smiles benevolently and orders them a mille-feuille, two forks.
It’s very difficult, waiting for it to arrive.
When it does — shining chocolate on pastry on luscious cream, glimmering in the low light, calling to him — he keeps his hands folded firmly in his lap as it’s set down.
Jean takes his time, with the first bite; plays out enjoyment.
He's slow after that, too, waiting to see how much Valentine will dare to eat, if he'll feel forced to match his pace.
He could eat neatly from one side, make it easy for Valentine to guess at half.
He doesn't do that.
Eventually there's only a little left.
He savors the last scrap of pastry, chases the taste of it long past the moment he swallows.
He really is incomparable.
"Next week," Jean tells him, when they part, "come hungry," and doesn't kiss those lovely lips.
He is leaning heavily against the side of the restaurant, when Jean arrives, and isn't as quick as usual to notice him.
His head snaps up immediately.
“…it’s always a pleasure,” he says, pushing himself up off the wall.
After a moment’s hesitation, he takes it.
He leans a little more heavily on it than he would like, as they approach their table.
“—no,” he says, a little too quickly for his taste. “Just — a very long day.”
Jean watches how unsteady the boy is on his feet, and feels an unfamiliar pang of sympathy twist his own stomach.
If only, he thinks -- a little detached from his own experience -- that were the only thing stirring.
They're seated. The waiter inquires about starters, and Jean orders himself hoecakes piled with blue cheese and frisée and caramelized apples. His companion will pass.
He almost manages to protest, as the waiter walks away.
But it’s a good thing he didn’t. He doesn’t have enough money in his pocket for a cup of coffee here, let alone any of the food.
Jean smiles at him and makes conversation as if nothing could possibly be the matter.
"...some Wilde at the Royal Haymarket next month. You'd enjoy it, I think, if you're free."
“…of course, if you’d take me…”
He finds himself going along with it, haltingly. What else can he do?
When the food arrives, Jean eats with evident enjoyment, chooses hibiscus-beet-seville-orange from the list of salads.
The waiter refills Valentine's water.
…so that’s how it is.
Maybe he’ll decline the next invitation. Maybe he’ll walk out right now.
(His stomach is gnawing at him.)
He drinks, as if it’ll do him any good.
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