Tara promises that she's getting more comfortable around Jesse, and worries that she's being "cheesy" in admitting that she's "always smiling" when she's around him. Sorry, snookums. You're totally an entire application process, a flight to L.A., and six-odd Rose Ceremonies past worrying that you look cheesy on TV. Jesse tells her, "You're doing good [sic]," impressed that she's able to carry of the monumental charade of making him look like any kind of a catch. He leans in for a kiss that really, actually inspires a fresh round of soul-shaking involuntary shudders every time I accidentally rewind back into it. There's something about it that really makes me...oh, it's Jesse. That's the "something." Despite how well he feels the date is going, Jesse notes, "I was very curious about dinner because I knew I was really gonna tell her how I felt, and I was very curious to see if she was gonna be able to do the same with me." Please, don't let this feeling end/ It's everything I am/ Everything I want to be/ I can see what's mine now/ Finding out what's true/ Since I found you/ Looking through the eyes of love. My salty tears have cascaded from my eyes into my computer, causing numerous shorts and other technical problems. Manchester! You owe me a new keyboard!
Night falls on the Quebec City winter's eve and plunges the city into total darkness, which means this date could have taken place pretty much any time after 2 PM. Jesse waits in the empty lobby of the product-placed Fairmont Le Chateau Frontenac. Meanwhile, Frontenac is all, "Y'all, this is my chateau. Get your dang varmit selves offa my lawn!" Good thing he had absolutely no guns with which to act out on that anger. Tara descends the steps, her fur hat having morphed into a fur-lined collar. She can make a hat! She can make a brooch! She can make a pterodactyl! Jesse and Tara enter a dining room with a festooned table for two, and Jesse tries to perform the producer-suggested grace of holding a chair out for Tara, which she mistakenly believes is the chair he's taking for himself and walks right past. Poor Tara from Paul's Valley, never having seen the niceties of fine dining, always living off the land and subsisting entirely off of whatever her pappy done shoot outta the sky. No one likes to talk about that one unfortunate time when Tara was young that her whole family ate nothing but a downed weather balloon for a trying two-month stretch. But really, it wasn't anyone's fault. Guns don't kill weather balloons. Weather balloons kill weather balloons.