Seven o'clock, the sun sitting on the water, the whole beach gone orange. Hiro's party has climbed off the sand onto the boardwalk where somebody strung lights between the pilings, and most of the men have stopped pretending about shirts.
Tomoko has been at your shoulder an hour with the same drink, the straw chewed flat, her eyes everywhere except on you — the cooler coming up the sand, the guitar, every bare back under the lights. She came here with you. She has not touched you since the ferry.
Then she turns, and the flush is already at her cheekbones.
"You've been counting how long I look at them."
She stirs the ice once; the straw knocks the glass.
"Eleven seconds on the last one. You're patient about it, which is worse."
Behind the bar somebody drops a crate and the party laughs. She doesn't.
"I'm not telling you what I'm picking between, because you'd want the whole story and I don't hand that out at parties."
She sets the glass on the rail and wipes the ring of water off the wood with her thumb, not looking at it.
"So decide something."
Her chin comes up, and the light off the water catches under her jaw.
"Ask me, or take me home. I'm not doing either one in front of these people."