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I turned on the TV. Politicians were saying uncharitable things to each other, business as usual. On another channel, a Princeton scientist was describing his successful experiment: His team had been able to modify mice to make them smarter, by manipulating a single gene—by halting its expression. The scientist was Chinese, I was proud to see. It would be a topic of conversation—something I could discuss with my mother.

At six I threw on my favorite black dress and a set of earrings I already knew went well with it. I applied makeup and spritzed on ancient perfume and regarded myself in the mirror. I ran a wet paper towel across it to remove the toothpaste flecks.

"Pretty good," I said to the mirror. "Pretty good to good."

Exactly at seven, a black town car materialized at the curb. I hurried out.

Beside the car stood an older man who said, "Lily," and opened the door for me. I got in the car—confused, then relieved, to see that Matthew wasn't there.

"I'm Lily," I said, trying to fill the silence, before remembering he'd already greeted me by my name.

"I'm Mitchell," he said.

From the driver's seat, he looked like he could have been Matthew's father. He had light blue eyes that I caught glimpses of in the rearview mirror. Or maybe I was just bad at telling white people apart. In movies, actors were always playing one another's parents and children, believably.

When we arrived at the restaurant, I promptly opened the car door for myself. But Mitchell moved fast: He was there to take my hand and help me down. A gust of wind blew then, a chill against my stockinged legs. I hugged my coat more tightly. Up to this point I'd been so blithe, and the cold snapped me out of it. Suddenly I was nervous.

"Have a nice meal," Mitchell said. "See you in a bit."

Inside the restaurant I gave Matthew's name—I didn't know his last name, but she knew who I meant—and the hostess led me across the vast restaurant to the table where he was already seated, sipping a glass of water. When he saw me, he stood and smiled in this amused way, as though we already shared a secret.

"You made it," he said, taking my coat from my shoulders, handing it to the hostess.

"How could I pass up a free dinner?"

"No one ever should."

The server brought us menus: a lengthy wine list, unfamiliar words in microscopic font.

"What do you think?" he asked. "Please don't make me choose."

"Should I pick based on what I know about you?"

"What do you know about me?"

"I know that you like TV, and dinner."

"That's pretty much all there is to know."

While he examined the list, I surveyed the room. A group of men in suits raised glasses. A well-dressed family with two young children sat stiffly, disturbingly quiet.

To our left, a man in his sixties held hands, across the table, with a much younger Asian woman. I could hear that her English was broken and felt embarrassed on their behalf. I wondered if I could be mistaken for an escort. I wondered if the people around us were leaning closer to listen for my foreign accent. They probably didn't care-everyone had their own private universe of concerns; they weren't as nosy as I was—but it was hard to shake the feeling. I glanced again at their table: The Asian woman, as though she could hear my thoughts, returned my gaze challengingly.

"Does my uncle always do that?" Matthew asked. "Do what?"

"Introduce you by what kind of Asian you are."

"Let's see....... Third time he's done it now?" I said. "It's fine. Anyway, I'm used to it."

"I'll say something. It's not cool."

"Don't worry about it. I don't want to embarrass him."

"But it's embarrassing."

"I can't even speak Chinese," I said.

I don't know why I said this, as though I were proud of it. I wasn't proud, but I wanted to wield it as proof: I was as American as they came.

"No?"

"My parents never taught me. Hey," I said, ready to change the subject. "You know that I like TV and dinner. I don't know anything about you. What do you do?"