“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.
“Oh wow?” she said.
“Oh wow,” he said.
“What do you say we blow this ice cream stand,” she said. “I saw a place down the street we can get a drink.”
Zoe woke up in another hotel room, this one a glass orb streaked with light. She patted down her body. Her jacket, dress, and tights were all still on. She was alone in the bed. She sat up and scanned the spacious suite. Factory windows overlooking the Hudson River, a sleek writing desk and bar, a coffee table adorned with flowers, and a stack of glossy magazines. Everything bright and airy and modern. Jiro was sitting some distance away on a plush gray coach, still in his suit, reading the newspaper. A blanket and pillow were neatly folded beside him. He looked up and smiled at her.
“Good morning, Zoe,” he said.
“Hey,” she croaked.
A glass bottle of water had been placed next to her on the nightstand. She cracked the cap and took a long gulp.
“You had a little too much to drink last night. I hope your head does not feel it too badly today.”
Zoe ran her hands through her hair. A thicket of tangles.
“I still managed to beat you at pool,” she said.
“That is shamefully true.” Jiro laughed. “And you danced me—what is the saying?—under the table too.”
Zoe let out a gurgle of laughter. “You had some moves. I saw you working that robot.”
Jiro improvised a mini version of this dance move from the couch.
“You’re just being kind,” he said in a robot voice.
Zoe sat up in bed, still giggling. “Did you sleep on the couch?”
“It was quite comfortable,” said Jiro. “I am used to small beds, as you know.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Really.”
“I’m afraid I could not quite decipher your address.”
“Seriously, you could have just put me in a cab.” Zoe sighed. “I’m good at getting home alone.”
Jiro frowned at her. “I would not allow that,” he said. “And nor should you.”
Zoe rolled her eyes and fell back against the pile of pillows behind her. “All right, Dad.”
“I will give you my car account number, just in case,” Jiro said. “You can use it to get home from now on.”
Zoe blinked sleepily at Jiro. “All right, Daddy,” she said more slowly.
Jiro laughed and looked away. “So, what is your schedule like today?”
She sat back up in bed. Her hair was standing on end around her sleep-creased face in a way she hoped looked tousled and beautiful and not simply electrified. She put her finger to her cheek, pretending to think, then smiled.
“Nada,” she said.
“I have no appointments until the afternoon. Shall we take breakfast together?”
“You work on a Sunday?”
“I work every day.”
“Is this the hotel you usually stay in?”
Jiro nodded.
“What do you think?”
“Very nice,” said Zoe, clasping her hands behind her head. “But I always judge a hotel by its bathtub.”
“Would you like to take a bath before going to breakfast?”
“We’re in a hotel, Jiro,” Zoe exclaimed, clambering out of bed. “We’re ordering room service.”
And so began what was for Zoe a perfect morning. She emptied a full bottle of bubble bath into the black marble tub and soaked herself until she heard the clatter of room service arrive. Jiro took a shower, and she was free to eat pancakes and bacon in bed with her fingers while watching reality TV. She drank a whole pot of coffee with two jugs of cream. When she complained about the state of her hair, Jiro called the front desk and asked them to procure a hairbrush for her, which was brought up with a flourish on a silver tray. Later, she and Jiro lay side by side on top of the bedspread, each bundled in a white terry-cloth robe, scrolling through the movies.
“Garbage, garbage, garbage,” said Zoe. “Let’s go to the classics.”
“You are very sure of your opinions,” said Jiro.
“I’ve seen everything,” said Zoe. “You might know hedge funds, Jiro, but I know movies.”