Once we introduced ourselves to Loire at Le Vin de Sang, we participated in traditional small talk as she served her guests, but all three of us felt that we only scraped the surface, and, since we're going to be spending two weeks together, also felt that it is essential to know more about each other if we are to cooperate in these confines successfully, so Loire invited us to her house for a sort of introductory dinner where we can talk about whatever we please without customers being a threat in our minds. In addition, she wanted us to try some of the classic French foods, because how America spins them is apparently disgusting and unauthentic on the highest level, although Americans never grasp that notion until they dine with the European.
Loire specifically told us that we don't have to dress formally, but that didn't stop Lent from procuring a wacky polka-dot bowtie from his bag, and tacking it onto a horridly yellow shirt. It's not like I'm going to scold him for his fashion choices, however poor, and neither will Loire, because he does what he sees fit, and I don't wish to break his heart over a casual dinner. But, just to reiterate, it is very ugly, and every fashion designer who ever lived is cursing him for getting away with it. Perhaps there's something endearing about his flaws, though. Perhaps it reinforces just how adorable he is.
"Basil! Lent!" Loire greets, striking us with the cultural phenomenon of kissing both of the cheeks of one's acquaintance, but this time I'm prepared for it, and I can do the same for her without messing up too badly.
Protected against the harsh bite of Parisian weather indoors, Loire has opted for a casual sundress that, judging from how new it looks and from the climate of France, she rarely has the opportunity to wear. It matches the hue of a sunflower, as Lent's yellow does not, and reminds me of how many times I have glimpsed the same color in other sundresses. It seems to be the default shade of these garments, not to say that it doesn't suit Loire. She actually looks rather remarkable in it, with the pinched waist and the flowing skirt that trickles down to her knees like a river of gold. I sense that Loire is the goddess of the twentieth arrondissement, and maybe even beyond.
I consider complimenting her on her dress, but Lent beats me to it, as always. "You look stunning, Loire."
"As do you, mon chèvrefeuille," Loire replies, fiddling with Lent's polka-dot bowtie cheerfully. It's obviously a lie, but Loire pulls it off so well that she has masterfully injected a blatant rouge into Lent's cheeks. Loire soon catches sight of me, in black skinny jeans and a loose white shirt, and, with a fascinated stare, adds, "And once more to you, mon hère."
"My honeysuckle and my wretch," Lent mouths from behind the woman, translating for his painfully monolingual friend.
"Thank you for inviting us," I acknowledge as Loire pulls us to her cherry dining table, upon which a meal of corn, bread, champagne, and pasta rest elegantly in their own decadence.
It is evident that she cooked all of this herself, and it smells absolutely amazing. I'm not sure how things operate in France — that would be left up to Lent, who survived honors French all throughout high school — but I assume they are very picky about their food, and rely on stores only for ingredients, especially when they are hosting guests they want to impress with their cultural cuisine, so it is very likely that Loire prepared all of this on her own, and for that I am more than thankful.
"It's no problem," Loire responds graciously as she scoots out two chairs on either side for us, then one at the head of the table for her. "I think Fleming would reprimand me if I didn't complete my job as your confidante."
"Yeah, it's probably best that you do what she asks," Lent comments, tucking himself to one of the aforementioned chairs. "Fleming can be worse than the devil when she's angry."
Lent's remark pounds a laugh out of me, and all I can do is agree with his clearly true statement while slipping into my own seat. "Cheers to that."
Loire seizes the metal basket of bread, drops a roll onto her plate, and passes it to the artist on her right. Once done, she repeats the action with the corn, and then the pasta, until she's dressed her plate in adequate nutrition. She waits for us to set the platters back down on the table before engaging in conversation.
"Do you attend a college in the U.S.?" Loire inquires, skipping the small talk to instead dive into aspects of our characters.
Lent answers the question, noticing that I'm otherwise disposed being inundated by a spoonful of corn (which, I must say, is delicious, and nothing like the store-bought shit pebbles I usually experience). "Yes, and Basil is a psychology major, while I am a visual arts major."
Even with a hand pinned to her mouth to hide the view of her chewing, Loire's interest is flagrant solely in those hickory eyes of hers, and once she digests her clump of pasta, she exclaims, "That must be so exciting."
I stop in the process of joining another spoonful of corn to my lips, in order to quip, "I'm sure it would be more exciting if American colleges weren't the epicenter of academic turmoil." I begin to study the round pellets of medallion on my spoon for no other reason than to occupy myself as I include, "Most of us want to die."
"You included?"
Half of my mouth tips upward in a sly smile. "More or less."
"Do you at least enjoy the concept of your majors?"
Lent handles this one so that I can actually eat that goddamn spoonful of corn, saying, "I paint often, which is a direct utilization of mine, but Basil uses his major subtly. He can work people out from minor cues, but he never tells us whether or not he's doing it in the moment, so we can only imagine how much he's discovered about us."
Lent interprets this as a joke, but I've honestly unearthed too much about my friends, secrets that I would rather do without, and, as he mentioned, I don't share this destruction with anyone else. All my friends know is that I'm the one to confide in when they've been pommeled by a nightmare, because I can figure out the exact root of it in their reality, and I am adept at helping them beat both the cause and the side effects of their dream. They have no idea that I'm actually a tiny bit obsessive about decrypting every action they make, linking it back to some philosophical property about human psychology, but I'm positive that they're content living in the dark, and I needn't confess anything, primarily not now, as Loire and Lent have progressed to discussing our reasons for traveling to Paris.
"Basil informed us that he is experiencing an artistic block on his writing, and Fleming told him the story of how she found inspiration to write music by visiting her parents' childhood homes in Paris and Prague. Eventually we decided to do the same, and I figured my paintings could benefit from it as well." Lent shrugs as if it's the most mundane reason in the world, as if the case is closed, but Loire is further intrigued.
"You paint?" Loire gasps, suspended in a high, but she soon plummets back down to correct her mistake. "Yes, you did say that you are a visual arts major. Anyway, what do you paint?"
Lent beams, thrilled by how invested Loire is in his work, in his life's efforts. "I'm starting a new project, actually."
Loire's defined brow twitches.
"The series is about human emotion. Of course I'll need a model for matters regarding humans, but I'm sure I could call it abstract if I screw up without one."
"I could be your model," Loire offers, and my vision immediately flicks over to her with a distrust unintentionally forged, a distrust that is quite unnerving for me.
I like Loire — I really do. I like her a lot, in fact. So why is the thought of her working as Lent's model so unpleasant to me? I have faced many opportunities to be in the same position, all of which I declined, so why is it that I'm suddenly so jealous now? Is it because of how he lights up at Loire's proposal? Is it because of how I was so bitter towards what he has devoted his life to, and am now wishing that I weren't? I don't fucking know, and I wish I did, but I can't pinpoint my emotions, even with all of that psychology shit clogging my brain. I contemplate offering to be another one of Lent's models for when Loire isn't around, but they're already talking a mile a minute about their plans, so I hang back as usual.
"Really? You'd do that?" Lent hastily swishes a lock of silver hair behind his ear to present the entire space of his visage to eyes widening uncontrollably with joy, and this glee tickles humor out of the woman before him.
"Without a doubt. I've always appreciated art more than I can say."
I wish Lent would behold me the way he beholds Loire in this moment, with a gaze so rich in prospect and in gratefulness, but that is an illogical hope, because I treat Lent as if he's an inconvenience, as if I only care about my own possessions and not his. Fleming and Sybil both know that he is the light of my life, yet I never model for his work, and I never allow him his space when he's painting in the room we share, and through this I also never realize that I'm a terrible friend to him. Well he's moved on from trying to persuade me away from my cynicism, and this is my heart-shattering epiphany. What kind of model would I be anyway? Lent needs someone beautiful, someone like Loire, not someone who drags him into the mud with me. I might as well forget I ever dreamed of what I cannot attain.
Loire lifts her glass of the sparkling champagne, and it levitates in the air for a few moments as she announces, "Let's raise a toast to Paris."
Because the drinking age in America is twenty-one (and Lent and I are only nineteen), we hadn't meddled with our champagne all that much. I abstained from it entirely, while Lent sampled a few sips of it. Loire — living in a country where the drinking age is a fluidity of the teenage years, and the purchasing age is eighteen, an age that she has already passed — has been drinking her champagne avidly, and has not noticed that we drank it as reservedly as birds would, so we lift our glasses to appease her.
"To Paris," Lent and I reply in harmony, and it is then that I down my first sip of wine legally, and damn is it wonderful — I applaud France for their fervidness about food, as it is indeed delectable, much better than the crappy bootlegs we serve in America. The champagne tastes like stars twinkling upon my tongue, like material bliss, like neglecting sour to focus on sweet, like the adventures to come in the next two weeks.
It tastes like art.
~~~~~
A/N: when you're both american and a teenager so you have no idea what champagne tastes like and you just basically preference the fault in our stars haha relatable
once again I would like to reiterate that loire is my actual mom I love loire thank you all hail bless
~Darkota