Qing Yang sounds like he's a pretty good salesman, all his stories are about how he found some trick that would make the person who bought the system like him, like the woman who didn't like ABC and didn't like Qing Yang, of course, until she found out that he grew up in West Virginia, just like she did. "We were neighbors then, you see?" he says. "It's that personal identification, you have to draw the client in to you."
I'm sure I could never do it, I mean, what if he hadn't been from West Virginia? I've never even been to West Virginia.
Qing Yang goes to the bathroom and I look at my watch. It's an hour after work. I don't know when I should go home, actually I'm getting hungry. He comes back. "Want to get something to eat?"
"Okay," I say.
We go to an Indian restaurant on Seventh Avenue. The sign says that it's been there over one hundred years. "Have you ever had Indian food?" Qing Yang asks.
"Is it like Thai?" I ask.
"Sort of." Inside is old-fashioned brick walls and tables with silver and white linen tableclothes. It doesn't seem very Indian. It's one of those antiquey places that has two glasses and three forks at every place; it doesn't look like there would be enough space on the table to put our dinner. Qing Yang orders for me, something called tandoori chicken. It's chicken baked with a yogurt covering, but it doesn't seem very yogurty. It's all right. I tell him it's very good. The bread is called poori, it puffs up like a pillow. We use it to scoop up red and green spicy sauces from a server in the middle of the table. I really like the bread.
I have a beer with my dinner, too. It's an Indian beer called Golden Eagle, but it just tastes like beer to me. Beer is beer is beer. I can't tell much difference.
After the restaurant he takes me to this place he knows where we can listen to music, "Just for an hour or so." At the place they are pattern dancing. Qing Yang tries to get me to dance, but I don't know any patterns. Finally he shows me a simple one. It's only twelve steps, well really fourteen if you count the curtsey/bow at the end and then he kisses my hand. When I curtsey, the tails of my suit brush the ground. If I start to go wrong, Qing Yang kind of pulls my hand to show me the correct way. "I'll teach you the quad," he promises. "What those people are doing."
The man holds the woman's hand in the air, she is wearing a ring that sparkles blue and white. They take two steps together, and make this kind of slithery glide, then a turn so that somehow she ends up in front of him, then he puts his hands on her hips and they lean sideways, bending away from each other like graceful trees, like tall courting birds. It seems to be very complicated, there's more after that. I don't think I could ever learn it. But it's so pretty. Pattern dancing music just seems to ripple along, at first I can't really tell the beat in it, but after a bit I realize it's very easy.
At nine Qing Yang says he'll be right back, and then he'll walk me to the subway station. I wait by the bar.
"Excuse me, what time is it?"
I don't realize that the man is talking to me until he repeats himself. "Excuse me, miss? Do you have the time?"
"Oh," I say, flustered. I look at my watch, although I just did. "It's a little after nine."
He is a waiguoren. He smiles at me and I smile back. He has light brown hair, very thick, that he wears in a queue. He reminds me a little of Zhang, the ABC I dated. He is wearing a burgundy sweater with a little cape, not a suit like he came from work.
"Your boyfriend?" he asks, gesturing towards the bathroom.
"No," I say, "just a friend." How casual it sounds. I like the sound of it. Qing Yang could be my boyfriend, but he is not, he is just a friend.
"What's your name?"
"Qian San-xiang," I say.
"San-xiang," he says, "that's a pretty name. What's it mean?"
"It means 'three fragrances'."
"My name's Bobby." He shrugs, "Unfortunately, it doesn't mean anything."
I giggle, he's funny.
"Are you from around here? I've never seen you here before." He has very nice, big eyes. Like a puppy. He isn't comparing my new face to my old face.
"No," I say, "I work for Cuo, down on Water Street. I live in Brooklyn." Just then I see Qing Yang coming back from the bathroom and I wonder if I'm supposed to be talking to Bobby if I'm with Qing Yang. But Bobby just smiles and turns back around, understanding. Just goes to show that all handsome guys aren't jerks.
I can feel my new life opening, like one of those paper pills you put in water that open out into flowers.
At work I have a letter from Aron Fahey. Aron Fahey is a Martian Settler, I contacted him because of an interview I saw in Xin Gongshe, a political theory magazine I subscribe to. The interview was about commune management and he was talking about political infrastructure in his commune. My political study group hopes to eventually establish an urban commune, and he had some interesting things to say about a community's politics versus a larger society's politics, and he also talked about the difference between a small commune's politics and a larger commune's politics. His commune has over 200 families, our commune might have only sixteen or so, so I wrote him a letter.
I get letters through the Cuo System Mailbox, I couldn't really afford the interplanetary rates on my own. I gave Aron my access, so he can afford to answer me. His letters are really interesting, it seems strange that I've never seen his face or heard his voice, but I know all about him. I know about his wife and his daughter, and about his farm. His life seems so straight-forward, he knows what he has dedicated his life to. If it wasn't on Mars, I'd probably ask him if I could join his commune.
I save the letter until my mid-morning break, but I'm just sitting down to enjoy it when Celia overrides my system shunt to tell me I've got a personal call. I imagine it's mama, calling to ask me to stop and get something in the city on my way home. I'm really surprised to see the guy from the bar, Bobby.
"Ah," he says, "it is you. I thought I remembered you saying you worked for Cuo."
"Hi," I say, startled.
"I'm really sorry to bother you," he says, "is this a bad time?"
"No," I say, "I'm on break."
"Oh, good," he says. He smiles, really nice. "I felt really bad about calling you at work, usually I never call anyone at work, you know? But I didn't know any other way to get in touch with you. You seemed so nice at the bar last night and I've just kept thinking about you. I bet you don't even remember me? Hell, I'll bet you get calls all the time."
I am blushing, I can feel how hot my face is, and I can't help laughing although it comes out all high-pitched and silly sounding. "Oh, no, I remember who you are. You were sitting at the bar. You asked me what my name meant."
"'Three Fragrances', right?"
"Right," I say.
He says that he's never seen me there before, although he adds that it isn't like he goes there all the time. I tell him it was my first time there.
"Hey, maybe I could meet you there? Buy you a drink? I'd really like a chance to get to know you. Although," he looks downcast, "on a Friday night, you're probably busy."
I almost say that I am, I mean, I don't know him or anything, but I think about it. I can just have a drink and then go home. I don't have to stay. It would be nice to meet someone. And he doesn't know anybody that I know, and he only knows the new San-xiang. He thinks I'm the kind of girl who has dates all the time, and he's handsome. "No," I say, "I'm not busy tonight. I'd love to have a drink."
He brightens up. "Great! What's a good time? How about seven or so?"
I have a date. I'm going out with this guy. Just like any normal girl.
The rest of the day goes so slow. And then I have to do something until seven. I can't really go home, I would just get home and have to turn around and come right back. So I get something to eat, and then I go shopping. I want to be late, I want to get there about five minutes after seven so I don't have to be sitting there when he gets there, but I start walking over too soon, and I get there at almost ten minutes of. He's not there.