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funny that you ask that, because just this morning my dad read an article in the local paper that said every year in Japan, people die from eating mochi.”
    Arash whipped me around by my shoulders to face him. “And this is what you’ve chosen to feed me tonight? Are you trying to get rid of me so you can finally have access to my roommate?”
    I giggled. “It’s usually older people and people who don’t chew the mochi well enough. Because it’s sort of thick and chewy.”
    “And gooey and sweet. I’ll be sure to chew it well.”
    “Then you’re fine.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I’m sure.”
    “And are you telling me you have a foreshadowing this is how you’ll die? Choking on a mochi ice cream ball?”
    “No, I seriously don’t have any hunches about that. I never think about it. You?”
    “A stroke. That’s how I’ll go.”
    “Are you serious or are you just being weird?”
    “I’m not serious, because of course I have no way of knowing. It’s a fear. A fear more than a hunch. Let’s move on to the next question. Two green-tea-flavored mochi things,” he said to the girl behind the counter. “Please, if you have some that are a little less chewy, we’d prefer those. Is there a paramedic on duty?”
    I handed her a ten dollar bill. “He’s just kidding.”
    “Please let me pay.” Arash plunged his hand into his jeans pocket.
    “I got it. You bought my dress, after all.”
    “Your dress selected you. I only facilitated its eventual destination.”
    “You know what, Arash?”
    “What?”
    “I never thought I’d say this, but Chester’s right. You do talk funny.”
    “Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?”
    “Both. Let’s go outside and eat by the pool. It’s this way.”
     
    ***
     
    We retraced our steps to the hub of the open-air lobby. A clear Plexiglas divider protected a sand sculpture from its admirers. People took turns posing in front of the sculpture, but that didn’t interest me. It wasn’t like I built it or anything.
    “I can’t believe someone actually made that,” I said. “I mean…I’ve made a lot of pathetic sand sculptures in my life but nothing that looked better than a pretty basic castle.”
    “Do you believe someone really made it?”
    An ancient Polynesian sailor raised his sand hand to his forehead, blocking the rays of the sand sun that shone brilliantly above him. Brilliantly, I say, because sand sunbeams radiated toward him, sand seabirds in full flight caught in their warmth. The sailor was looking for something. Land? Bad weather ahead?
    “What do you mean? Obviously someone made it.”
    “I’m only thinking that perhaps there’s metal underneath the surface. Maybe this is actually a metal sculpture with sand fixed to it to give the illusion of a sand sculpture.”
    “Why would you say that?” I realized this was the first time I felt irritated with Arash and I wondered why I was having such a strong reaction. “Why ruin such a beautiful thing?”
    “I was simply wondering…” Arash seemed caught off guard by my reaction. He lowered his voice. “Things are not always what they seem.”
    And maybe that’s what bothered me. I wanted things to always be what they seemed. I never liked surprises, even the good kind. But Arash was far from being who I thought he was in the cookie store—one of the snickering backup boys to the blond Harrison. Someone without a mind of his own, enjoying himself at my expense.
    “Maybe you’re right,” I said somewhat sadly. I’d always admired these sculptures. There were others nearby. I had imagined the artist sitting in the middle of a pile of wet sand like a talented adult version of a kid on the beach, trowel in hand shaping noses, delicate eyebrows, lips, fingertips. “I’ll bet we can find out from her.” I pointed to the information desk, staffed by a woman in a navy-blue skirt and blazer. “Let’s ask.”
    “Let’s not.” Arash put his hand on my forearm. “Let’s leave it as a question in