He leans close enough for me to feel the heat from his skin. “We have to sell it, don’t we?”

I consider, and then nod, pressing my hip against his, resting my hand against the warm dip in his waist. It feels strange, to be touching a near-stranger like this. It happens so rarely for me, these days. It’s also a comfort. I want to lean closer to him, breathe in the scent of his skin.

In the Hearth, there was a lot of touching. Not necessarily sexual—people just touched each other more. Greeted each other with hugs, or casually threw an arm around someone else. Here in San Francisco, people are more reserved. Maybe that’s why so many feel the need to come to places like Zenith, where they can pretend the barriers between people are thinner.

I shake my head, patting my shorter hair and trying to gain a bit of composure. The door swooshes open. We sidle through, still touching. Nazarin settles into his role with an ease I envy. He laughs, warm and deep in his throat, his hand lingering on my hipbone. I feel the strong ropes of muscle on his back beneath his shirt. I resist the irrational urge to stroke my hand down his spine.

We make our way through the club, which is busier now. Beautiful men and women with perfect bodies, perfect faces, perfect clothes, laughing their perfect laughs and drinking their perfectly delicious drinks. The minty mist of cigs fills the air, mingling with the flattering blue and purple lighting. There’s that sameness to so many people in San Francisco and the rest of Pacifica. When anyone can choose to alter their appearance at will, so many tend to go for the same bland, symmetrical features. Now I feel like I’m a little more like them.

I still miss the simplicity of certain aspects of the Hearth. Knowing that if you looked at someone, it was the face and body they were born with, shaped by their experiences. Everyone in San Francisco wears a mask.

Having said that, there’s plenty about the Hearth I don’t miss one little bit.

We perch at a round table. I access my brainloaded info and lean toward Nazarin to say, “What’ll it be to drink?”

“Gin and tonic,” he replies.

I go to the bar and order two drinks, which will be added to Nazarin’s tab. The bartender’s name is Ira, and he smiles at me as he gives me the glasses. We chat for a bit, but Tila didn’t give much information beyond his name, so I’m glad when other hosts and hostesses come up with their drink orders.

I take my gin and tonics to the table. It’s synthetic, like all alcohol in the city. No damage to the liver, non-addictive, no hangovers. I pass Nazarin his, and we clink our glasses together.