7
STONE
Darius dumps the stack of etiquette books on my kitchen counter with a thud that rattles my carefully arranged spice jars.
"You asked for help. This is help."
I read the titles.Modern Manners for the Professional.The Art of Small Talk.Dining Etiquette: A Complete Guide.
"I cook for a living. I know how to eat."
"You eat like you're starving in a warzone." He flips open the top book, pointing to a diagram of fork placement. "It’s different between knowing how to eat and knowing how to dine."
My jaw tightens. Three days since the online explosion. Three days of watching Lacy field questions about whether she's "safe" around me, whether the bookstore should maintain its grant funding with "controversial staffing choices." Three days of being the problem she has to solve.
I need to be less of a problem.
"Show me."
Darius grins. "Now we're talking."
He sets my table like it's a fancy restaurant. Forks on the left, knife and spoon on the right, napkin folded into some origami nonsense that looks like a bird having a seizure.
"Napkin goes in your lap immediately. Not tucked into your collar like a bib."
"Why?"
"Because that's the rule."
"Stupid rule."
"Welcome to human society." He sits across from me, demonstrating proper posture. Straight back, elbows off the table, hands folded when not actively eating. "Small bites. Chew with your mouth closed. Wait for everyone to be served before you start."
I practice. Cut imaginary meat into precise portions. Bring fork to mouth without hunching over the plate like I'm defending territory. It feels performative and ridiculous, but I force myself through the motions.
"Better." Darius watches with the critical eye of someone who actually cares about this stuff. "Now conversation. When someone asks how you are, you say?"
"Fine."
"Good. Simple. Don't launch into your actual feelings or detailed health updates."
"What's the point of asking then?"
"It's not actually a question. It's a greeting disguised as concern." He leans back, crossing his arms. "When they talk about the weather, you agree it's nice or comment briefly. You don't explain meteorological patterns or compare it to the northern territories."
"That happened once."
"It happened three times last week." But he's smiling. "Look, I get it. Your people value directness. Honesty. Substance overritual. But humans use these little dances to establish comfort and trust. Master the dance, earn the trust."
I nod slowly, hating how much sense it makes. How much I need to reshape myself to fit their world.
After Darius leaves, I practice in front of my bathroom mirror. Smiling with my mouth closed so my tusks don't show as prominently. Moderating my volume. Testing phrases.
"How are you?" Pause. "Fine, thanks. And you?"
"Lovely weather we're having."
"Yes, quite pleasant."
