"Yes," I say, because it's what he wants me to say.

"I'll bet you drink Chrysanthemums," he says.

"I do," I say, even though I don't and I feel a little uncomfortable.

"See," he says, "I know you."

He orders drinks. He is so handsome, and I feel so pretty, people must look at us and envy us.

Bobby asks me about my job and I tell him, although it's really very boring. He asks me if I'm from China and then why am I living here? A Chrysanthemum is a bright, clear fuchsia with one of those light sprays in it. It tastes sweet, but a little hot, like cinnamon. It's good. While I am telling him how my father caused us to come here and about how old-fashioned my father is and how my cousins in China think my father is terribly feudal, he buys me another. At first I think he is just being polite, but he keeps asking me questions, how did it feel to leave my friends, did I feel out of place here? "You're like an aristocrat," he says, but he is serious, not trying to flatter me. "Your breeding shows, when you were young you were accustomed to finer things."

I never thought of myself as aristocratic. It's true that mama and I buy some things from China, and mama keeps the apartment looking like China. Not shabby, the way people do here, but finished, with a system that changes the wall color and dims the windows. We have all our old furniture from China, not like the new furniture in China that ties into your system so you can change the color to match your decor, but still much better than anything you can find here.

"Someday I will go back," I say, although until this moment I didn't really think I would. But saying it I realize it is true, I must go back. I don't know how I will do it, but I am a citizen. "This job at Cuo, it's just for now. I'm going to change my job."

"Good for you," he says. "So you live with your parents?"

Just the way he says it, the way it sounds, makes me wish I didn't. Here I sit, drinking a Chrysanthemum, wearing my suit from China, with this handsome man. I should not live with my parents. I cannot say I live with my parents, he'll think I'm a child. "No," I say, "I have an apartment."

He is surprised. His eyes grow wider, respectful. "Really. Alone?"

"It is only for awhile," I say, "a group of my friends and I plan eventually to establish a commune out in Brooklyn, down by Brighton Beach or Coney Island." I look casually down at my drink. It is true, the part about my friends, although I have often wondered if we will really ever do anything except talk. Surely everybody must feel that way when they start something as difficult as establishing a commune.

Then it occurs to me that some people disapprove of landlords. Perhaps he is disappointed in me. I add quickly, "I don't really condone the landlord system. It is just that the only other alternative is living out in Pennsylvania or West Virginia. And it is only temporary."

He nods, looking thoughtful.

I want to ask him if he condones landlords, but what can he say after I have said that I have an apartment?

"Where do you live?" I ask.

"New Jersey," he says, "but right now I am staying with friends. San-xiang," he pauses and smiles, "I love to say your name, it is such a pretty name, so old fashioned. San-xiang. I've been invited to a party later tonight, would you like to go with me?"

"I'd love to," I say, feeling worldly.

I feel funny when we get to the party. It's in a very small apartment that doesn't have much furniture. Not even a bed. Then I realize that the couch thing on the floor is a futon. The apartment is painted white; floor, ceiling, walls, pipes, even the bricks that make up a kitchen wall. But the paint is old and has black scuff marks in places.

Everybody knows Bobby. Nobody is wearing a suit. Some of the people at the party might be from the University, although it is hard to tell. There is no place to sit. Some of the girls are very strange looking and one of the boys is wearing a dhoti. I think dhotis look funny, very pre-industrial revolution. Why would anyone want to look pre-industrial revolution?

The music is weird, too. All that harmonic tonal stuff and complicated percussion. We walk towards the second room. A girl is saying, "… people as musical instruments, rather then the homocentric view that people are foreground and instruments background-hi Bobby."

"Hi Cara," he says, and keeps walking. He leaves me in the middle of the second room and says he'll be right back. I don't know what to do, so I try to stand out of the way and look like I'm expecting him right back. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. Some people are walking around but most people are standing in groups, talking. I hear snatches of conversation:

"… so I told him, 'Empathy is a measure of emotional maturity'… "

"… Debra, how can, how truly can. Where did you… "

"… it's all a matter of continuous consciousness, reassembled, I would not know I was not he, but that consciousness would have been interrupted and a new consciousness, identical, would replace it, and so it would be a death… "

"… simulating length to time when it flies by before it can even be recognized, if that makes any sense… "

I feel very stupid. What if somebody talks to me?

I see Bobby coming back and smile at him. "Tomas isn't here," he says, "they said he's not here yet. He's a friend of mine. Here, I couldn't find much to drink so I brought you a Grenade." He hands me a white container, then shakes his and opens it. I shake mine and open it. I take a taste, it burns. "Wait," he says, "I need to talk to someone-"

I'm alone again. I shouldn't have come. At least I have my Grenade. I hope that Bobby doesn't want to stay long, maybe-I check my watch, it's nine-thirty-in an hour I'll leave. An hour is enough time. Besides, the Chrysanthemums have made me tired.

I've drunk half of my Grenade before Bobby comes back. "Come on," he says, "there are some people I want you to meet."

So we go back towards the room that is not the kitchen. All this white, it's like a funeral. In the back room they have the lights way down and people are sitting on the floor. I am wearing my good suit-even if it is an old San-xiang suit it's still good-but when Bobby sits down I carefully sit down, too. Bobby says "San-xiang, this is Dana, Carlos," and he names four other names but it's hard to keep them all straight. Everybody smiles at me. I am wearing a good red suit and sitting on a dirty white floor. I smile back. They are all wearing tights. Dana is maybe forty and she hasn't had her metabolism monitored in a long time because she's overweight. She has large, soft haunches, but she's not dirty and she smiles at me.

I listen to people talk, they are all talking about people I don't know. I want to look at my watch but it would seem rude. I drink my Grenade. It's milky white and tastes like bitter almonds. Or maybe bitter vanilla. Everything white, except the scuff marks on the walls. In the dim light the scuff marks almost look like characters. I find "ren," people, and "xiao," small. Bobby puts his arm around me.

It feels strange, but nice. His arm is heavy, in a good way. I can feel his fingers on my collar bone. Nobody notices. Maybe they assume that I am Bobby's new girlfriend. Maybe I am.

Bobby's girlfriend. Bobby de nupengyou. I try to find the characters for girlfriend in the scuff marks; I find "nu", girl, and the second character in friend, "you". My head feels funny, too many Chrysanthemums and Grenades.

"Come on, baby," Bobby says all the sudden, "let's get some air."

He pulls me to my feet and I look around, everybody is looking at us in a bemused sort of way.

Bobby smiles at me and brushes me off, straightens my suit. I feel wobbly. Not drunk exactly, but definitely wobbly. "My head feels funny," I say, my voice sounding very small.