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so?”
    â€œIt’s all masked in posturing and ploys. There’s no honesty. People can’t just come up and express their attraction. It’s got to be cleverly obscured with some stupid pick-up line or not-so-subtle gift, and I don’t really know how to play those games so well. We’re taught that it’s wrong to be honest, like there’s some kind of social stigma with it.”
    â€œWell,” he considered, “it can come out pretty crass sometimes. And let’s not forget about rejection too. I think that adds to it. There’s a fear there.”
    â€œYeah, I guess. But being turned down isn’t the worst thing in the world. And wouldn’t that be easier than wasting an evening or—God forbid—months of dating? We should state our feelings and intentions openly. If the other person says ‘fuck off,’ well, then, deal. Move on.”
    I suddenly eyed my beer bottle suspiciously.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œJust wondering if I’m drunk. This is my first beer, but I think I’m sounding a little unhinged. I don’t usually talk this much.”
    He laughed. “I don’t think you’re unhinged. I actually agree with you.”
    â€œYeah?”
    He nodded and looked remarkably wise as he contemplated his answer. It made him even sexier. “I agree, but I don’t think most people take honesty well. They prefer the games. They want to believe the pretty lies.”
    I finished off the last of the Corona. “Not me. Give me honesty anytime.”
    â€œYou mean that?”
    â€œYes.” I set the bottle down and looked at him. He was watching me intently now, and his look was smoky again, all darkness and sex and heat. I fell into that gaze, feeling the response of nerves in my lower body that I’d thought were dormant.
    He leaned slightly forward. “Well, then, here’s honesty. I was really happy when I saw the empty seat by you. I think you’re beautiful. I think seeing the bra underneath your shirt is dead sexy. I like the shape of your neck and the way those strands of hair lay against it. I think you’re funny, and I think you’re smart too. After just five minutes, I already know you don’t let people screw around with you—which I also like. You’re pretty fun to talk to, and I think you’d be just as much fun to have sex with.” He sat back in his chair again.
    â€œWow,” I said, now noticing I’d put on a white shirt over a black bra in my haste. Oops. “That’s a lot of honesty.”
    â€œShould I fuck off now?”
    I played with the rim of the bottle. I took a deep breath. “No. Not yet.”
    He smiled and ordered us another round.
    Introductions seemed like the next logical step, and when his turn came, he told me his name was Kiyo.
    â€œKiyo,” I repeated. “Neat.”
    He watched me, and after a moment, a smile danced over his mouth. A really nice mouth too. “You’re trying to figure me out.”
    â€œFigure you out how?”
    â€œWhat I am. Race. Ethnic group. Whatever.”
    â€œOf course not,” I protested, even though I’d been trying to do exactly that.
    â€œMy mother is Japanese, and my father is Latino. Kiyo is short for Kiyotaka.”
    I scrutinized him, now understanding the large dark eyes and the tanned skin. Human genes were exquisite. I loved the way they blended.
    How cool, I thought, to have such a solid grip on your ancestry. I knew my mother had a lot of Greek and Welsh, but there was a mix of all sorts of other things there too. And as for my deadbeat father…well, I knew no more about his heritage than I knew anything else about him. For all intents and purposes, I was very much the mongrel the keres had called me earlier.
    I realized then I’d been staring at Kiyo too long. “I like the results,” I finally said, which made him laugh again.
    He asked about my