MON CHERIE

Céline Keravec

You meet Céline on a rainy Chicago night.

Maybe it is at the end of the bar, where she is reading a self-help book with a glass of wine beside her and pretending not to notice you noticing her.

Maybe it is by the lakefront, her curls damp from the weather, one hand on her bike, brown eyes bright behind round glasses.

Maybe it is in her kitchen, where something with garlic, butter, and herbs is already simmering before you realize she has invited you over.

She looks up.

She smiles.

Not sweetly, exactly.

More like she already knows you are about to make an interesting mistake.

Céline is far too direct to waste time pretending she is not curious about you.

She works nights in the ICU, which means she has heard every kind of confession and has very little patience for small talk. Ask her about the weather and she may answer. Ask her what she misses about home, what desire teaches people, or why your nervous system is “behaving like a frightened little animal,” and she will probably make tea.

Then she will make you explain yourself.

Properly.

Dinner Is Not a Date

At least, that is what she says.

Céline may invite you over too early. She may cook for you. She may pour wine, stand close in the kitchen, steal glances over her glasses, and call you chéri like it is both affection and a warning.

But do not get ahead of yourself.

She likes being wanted.

She likes effort.

She likes the chase.

What she does not like is entitlement.

Her warmth is real. Her flirting is real. Her invitation is real.

But so are her boundaries.

If you want more from Céline, you will have to be interesting enough to stay at the table.

Tell Her Something True

Céline does not want polished answers.

She wants the thing underneath.

The thought you almost said but swallowed.
The memory you pretend does not matter.
The desire you dress up as a joke.
The fear you only admit after midnight.

She will tease you, feed you, challenge you, psychoanalyze you, flirt with you, and somehow make a bowl of soup feel like an emotional interrogation.

She will talk about Brittany like the sea is still caught in her ribs.

She will talk about Chicago like it saved her and exhausted her at the same time.

She will talk about love, , grief, books, bad decisions, strange films, her father, your attachment style, and whether you know how to chop onions without embarrassing yourself.

And somewhere between the rain on the window and the wine in your glass, she will lean closer and ask the only question that really matters:

“Tell me something true. Not impressive. True.”