Presently Loren and Jean ended up in the waiting room of one of the best restaurants in France, and they were there because they had missed their reservation. Jean had prodded them to leave on time, she was a punctual person in general. But Loren stopped to sign a few autographs, some from pretty girls and an old man and also a little boy who was crying. Loren consoled the boy and the others that the hiatus was only temporary, and once his head was 'in it again' he would go back to crafting those catchy beats which polluted the air and their minds with a happy feeling.
The waiting room was mostly in empty, save a man with a wife younger than his daughter who was a native and argued with her hurriedly. Jean and Loren sat respectfully at the opposite side of the room, their fine clothes seeming out of place in the dim and cramped place.
"I'm not upset," Jean was saying for the fourth time, and she was very upset. "It's just that this is the second time. And you promised."
"I know. I'm sorry." He repeats like he's reading a script.
While her normally flowing locks were coupled into an updo, his dark brown mop was slicked back into a pompadour. The fighting couple were called for their table. Jean shifted naturally one seat away from Loren.
"And another thing," she huffed, " You flirt with your fans."
"What do you expect?" He drily returns.
"What's that supposed to me?" Jean says.
He crossed a line, that's for sure. His hands were drumming on his knee, flicking at an instrument that wasn't there but he wished were. Jean was not used to the silence that followed, and equal parts of her wanted to ignore him, apologize, storm out or cuss. In her hometown of Linda, she was one of the prettiest girls. Always adored, followed around, envied. She was not ashamed to acknowledge that she took advantage of people's adoration, especially the nerdy boys like Carson who were abundant and desperate. It was justified that if they only liked her for her looks it was a natural comeuppance for them to be taken advantage of. Carson, who always drove her wherever and it was him who got her with Loren, basically. Loren, who hadn't even defined their relationship.
This stringent hanging out together in France was romantic on paper. In reality, she felt like a sidekick. Someone to accompany him and his ego from point A to B. "Jean." He said in her direction. Before he could finish that sentence their table was called. The host postured at the opening, waiting to guide them to their table.
"You and your girl shall follow me." He declared, more to himself than anyone else. A bomb had been set.
Loren detonated when he replied, "She's like a sister to me." A sister? She stomped up and kicked him in the shin of his well pressed dress pants.
"My good leg! He exclaimed, the pain twisted on his face as he bent to cradle his uninjured leg. Jean had already stormed out when he looked back up. His eyes instead met the host, who had a dumbfounded expression.
His complacency curled into a wiry smile. " Table for one, now, sir?"