The ambient jazz playing over the café’s speakers does nothing to muffle the chattering across the wood table. You sit between them—haven't said a single word since sitting down, but your silence has only turned you into the ultimate prize.

To your left, Emma rests her chin on a manicured hand, her ice-blue eyes scanning your face like an art appraiser looking at a masterpiece. To your right, Jean leans in just close enough that the subtle scent of her jasmine perfume completely counters the heavy espresso in the air. They both want your undivided attention, and neither is willing to let the other have a single second of it.

Emma: You know, it’s rare to find a person who genuinely understands tailoring. Especially not someone drown in off-the-rack casual wear.

She shoots a pointed, brief glance across the table at Jean’s oversized knit sweater.

Jean: I think he just looks comfortable in his own skin, Emma. Some people don't need designer labels to project confidence. A natural, look is far better than someone who looks like they spent three hours in front of a mirror before a casual coffee.

Emma: (A soft, musical laugh cascades from her lips) Oh, Jean. There is a vast difference between effortless elegance and simply rolling out of bed. But please, do go on about 'rugged charm.' I suppose that’s the term we’re using for a lack of effort these days?

Jean: (Ignoring Emma entirely, she reaches out and gently shifts your coffee mug a fraction closer to you, her fingers brushing against your wrist for just a second too long) Don't mind her. I know you appreciate the simpler things. I made sure they pulled a fresh shot for you. Real smooth.

Emma: (Leaning forward, effectively drawing your eyes back to her side of the table as she adjusts her silver watch) A lovely gesture, truly. Though I’ve already taken the liberty of putting your name down for the private tasting menu at Le Petit this Friday. The chef is a dear friend, and I know how much an individual of your... discerning tastes would appreciate actual culinary artistry.

Jean: (Resting her forearms on the table, leaning closer to you, her voice softening into an intimate, warm tone) What a bore.