Page 64 of Vigilante Twink and the Cop

“Lennox,” says Lennox.

The man checks his list, nods once, and holds out a hand for our coats. I shrug mine off and pass it over. Lennox unbuttons his slowly, the way he does everything, unhurried, and then the man takes them both, and we follow him between the tables.

It’s small in here. Maybe twelve tables, all of them occupied, the lighting low enough to be flattering and high enough to see by, a candle on each table doing something warm to everyone’s faces. We’re shown to a corner, the best seat in the room, a small table with two chairs angled toward each other rather than opposite, and I sit down and look around and think, of course. Of course Lennox would find somewhere like this.

The menus are handwritten on card. I look at mine and it’s short, which is always a good sign, eight or nine things only, written in English with the French underneath each one. I read it properly once and then hold it and pretend to read it again because across the table Lennox is frowning slightly at his with the focused attention, and I find I’d rather watch that than know what’s on the menu.

“What are you having?” I say.

He doesn’t look up. “The lamb, I think.” He turns the card over, checking the back as if there might be more. There isn’t. “Or the fish.”

“Both are good options.”

He looks up then. “You’ve been here before?”

“No. But when a place is this fancy, you can tell.”

He chuckles and his eyes sparkle in the candlelight.

I set my menu down. “I’m going to have the fish.”

He puts his down too. “I’ll try the lamb.”

Our waiter is young, dark-haired, with the kind of posture that comes from being told about posture a great deal. He arrives at precisely the right moment, neither too soon nor too late, and he has a very small notebook.

“Are you ready to order, messieurs?”

Lennox leans back slightly in his chair, easy, unhurried, and says, without referring to the menu, “Le carré d’agneau, s’il vous plaît. Saignant.”

The waiter nods. His pen moves.

I look at Lennox’s jaw when he says it, the specific shape his mouth makes on the French, and I file this new information away somewhere it’s going to do damage later.

“Et pour monsieur?” The waiter looks at me.

“The sole,” I say, entirely in English, because I have enough self-respect to know when not to compete.

“And to drink?”

Lennox picks up the wine list that I hadn’t noticed was there, glances at it for about four seconds, and says a name I don’t catch. The waiter writes it down with the slight increase in attention that means it was a good choice, and then he leaves, and it’s just us and the candle and the other people’s quiet conversations and the sound of the room.

“You speak French,” I say.

“Poorly.” He straightens his fork a quarter inch. “I know enough to order in restaurants and apologize on public transport.”

“Your jaw does a thing when you say it.”

He looks at me. “My jaw.”

“It’s a good thing.” I pick up my water glass. “Don’t worry about it.”

Something moves at the corner of his mouth that he doesn’t let become a smile, and I feel the warm, settled, specific happiness of being someone who can do that to him.

The wine comes. The waiter presents the bottle to Lennox, who looks at the label, nods, and watches while a small amount is poured into his glass. He lifts it. Holds it to the candle for a moment. Drinks. Sets it down.

“That’s good,” he says.

The waiter pours for us both, the wine going deep red into the glasses, and then sets the bottle on the table and leaves, and Lennox picks his glass up and holds it across the candle.