Cleopatra and Frankenstein(103)

“Are you Buddhist or something?”

“No. I’m just older than you. I’ve learned some things.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Yes,” said Zoe thoughtfully. “That is very old.”

Jiro threw his head back in a laugh. His throat was the color of copper.

“You want to eat some ice cream with me?”



The ice cream parlor was quiet and warm, with light like butterscotch. Zoe and Jiro sat on high stools in the window, on display. She nudged the mass of ice cream in her Coke float with a straw and smiled. Something unexpected was happening; she was feeling better. Perhaps it was the knowledge of the five crisp $100 bills nestled in her coat pocket, or eating the first real meal she’d had in days, or maybe it was the palliative combination of sugar and caffeine she was currently consuming, but she felt her mind and body come together for the first time in what felt like a long while.

“See, I think it’s cool you got green tea,” said Zoe, poking her spoon into Jiro’s cup and nudging herself against his shoulder. “Not afraid of adhering to stereotype, you know?”

“Because I’m Japanese?” Jiro laughed. “You know, green tea originated in China. And please note I ordered chocolate too.”

“Everyone orders chocolate.”

“You ordered vanilla!”

“Yeah, but in a Coke float. That’s old-school.” Zoe licked the metal spoon and grinned. “I could say something inappropriate now, but I won’t.”

“About ice cream?”

“About you clearly liking chocolate.” Zoe raised one eyebrow. “Because, you know, you’re on a date with me.”

“You think that is why I contacted you?”

“I think that’s got to be part of it. I mean, dude, you listed Tina Turner in your interests.”

“I like her music,” Jiro said. He shifted on his chair so they were no longer touching.

“And her Blackness,” said Zoe.

“Do you consider yourself Black, Zoe?”

“I don’t consider myself Black. I am Black. It’s a fact, not an opinion.”

“But you are also white, no?”

“My mother’s white. My father’s Black. So yes, I’m white too. But that doesn’t make me less Black.”

“It seems to me that is exactly what it does.”

“And what would you know about it?” Zoe could feel her face getting hot.

“My mother is half Korean,” said Jiro. “So I understand a little. It was very difficult for her, growing up in Japan. I think she always felt, I’m not sure … less than.”

“Well, I don’t feel less than,” said Zoe. Her voice was growing higher.

“Of course,” said Jiro. He tried to put a hand on hers, but she flicked it away. “I hope you never do. I’m merely telling you my mother’s experience.”

“Well, I’m not your fucking mother.”

“Please calm down,” said Jiro. “I don’t see things that way. Race is not important to me. I was simply—”

“Oh, come on.” Zoe rolled her eyes. “That’s like men who say ‘I love women!’ If they feel the need to say it, it’s because they don’t. Anyone who says they don’t care about race obviously does. A lot.”

“Do you know the joke about coffee and opinions?” asked Jiro. Zoe shook her head. “The difference between coffee and your opinion is that I asked for coffee.”

“Whatever, dude.” Zoe slammed her spoon down on the table. A couple with matching white-blonde hair looked over at them in alarm. “You come from one of the most racist countries in the world. You guys are all like skin-whitening creams and parasols and hating on the Chinese.”

“Have you been to Japan?”

“No, but—”

“Then perhaps we should have this conversation when you have.”

“Just because I haven’t been there doesn’t mean I don’t know about it.”

“Perhaps. But this does not seem to be the most productive conversation for us to have at this time. Especially since your judgments so far seem to be based on”—Zoe was pleased to see Jiro lose a little of his cool here—“on I don’t know what! Cartoons, I think.”

“Fine,” she said. “We don’t need to talk.”

“If you prefer.”

“Enjoy your ice cream and your latent racism,” she said.

She immediately regretted it, regretted the whole turn of the conversation, but she was not about to apologize. Zoe glared at the contents of her glass and whipped her spoon until the ice cream dissolved into a frothy brown swirl. Across the street a group of kids around her age were walking toward a bar. One of the boys was carrying a girl on his back, and they were laughing. She had forgotten it was Saturday night.

Jiro reached across her to grab a straw. He removed the paper wrapper, scrunching it into a tight harpsichord, and placed the crinkled piece of paper in front of her. Then he put the end of the straw in his glass of water and carefully let a droplet fall on the paper. The folds opened, and it began to shimmy along the counter. It became a wriggling paper worm. Jiro let another droplet fall, and it grew again, twisting toward Zoe. She turned to look into his open, expectant face.