I stare at the handsome guy sitting in front of me. Around us, lights reflect from the white tiles of the cafeteria walls, and tall windows display photographic images of a school yard, some students frozen mid-step, some sitting on benches, chatting. There’s no movement and no sounds in the room, until Aiden crosses his arms and leans back, his chair creaking underneath him. I wonder if he's actually nervous or just pretending to be.

“So,” he says. “Would you like to go first?”

I nod, appreciating the gesture. There are so many things I want to ask him about. The nature of shifters, where they came from, their goals—because, unlike humans, I'm pretty sure they know the answers to those questions. Why're they doing what they're doing, what do they get out of it? Do they feel anything, ever, about anyone?

Except that he won't answer any of those questions. It’ll just scare him away. I should start slowly and test the water.

“What's your favorite color?” I say.

His eyes widen, then he throws his head back and laughs.

Despite myself, I smile, too. “What? People ask all kinds of silly things on first dates.”

“Didn't expect that.” He shakes his head. “All right, let me think.” He wrinkles his forehead. “Damn, I've never even considered it! What's there to like or dislike about a color? I mean, they all have equal value.”

My smile kind of freezes at that. This just shows how he's not like me. Every person has a preference regarding colors—when choosing their clothes, painting their walls, what not. I bet that even color-blind people have certain shades they prefer. It's such an alien perspective, to not like or dislike any colors at all.

“Is it weird?” he says, watching my expression. “I'm not dodging the question. I could have just thrown any random color at you, but I'm trying to be truthful. That's the point, no?”

I nod. If this means he's trying to do this right, I sure welcome it.

“That's okay,” I say. “But think about it—if you had to choose clothes, wouldn't you have preferences for certain colors? Something that goes well with your...” I cut myself short before saying 'face'—because he doesn't really look like what I'm seeing now. “I don't know, just feeling like 'that would look nice on me'?” He blinks confusedly, and I try again. “Or, I don't know, looking at the sky and going, 'oh, this blue color is so pretty', or 'the grass is so green, it makes me happy'...”

“Black,” he says suddenly. “I think I like black.”

“Aha,” I say, surprised. “Why?”

He shrugs. “It's soothing.”

“Black is soothing?”

“Isn't it, to you?” He looks puzzled. “Like, it's the color of nothing. Within nothing, nothing happens, and so nothing can go wrong—hence, it's soothing.”

“I never thought of it that way.” I pause. “What about white? It's also kind of nothing.”

“Yes, but it's the color of beginning. It’s nothing until it gets filled with something. Therefore, white is energizing, while black is soothing.”

I blink, trying to process this, but his logic is too alien. If such an innocent question uncovers such a chasm between us, I'm not sure if his answering my other questions could help anything. I probably just won't understand his answers.

“I don't find white energizing,” I say slowly. “There's just so much of it.” I gesture around. “Like, ninety percent of my surroundings are white. It’s depressing.”

“I think it's been chosen for being neutral and clean.”

“Chosen? By whom?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Isn't it my turn to ask a question?”

I raise my hands. “Go ahead.”

“Do you find me attractive?”

I blink, surprised. He eyes me with that cocky expression of someone who's hot and aware of that. Of course I find him attractive. Thing is, it's not really him that's attractive, but the shape he chose to inhabit. What he really looks like I don't even want to imagine. Probably just some amorphous blob swimming in black soothing nothingness, or worse. The handsome boy in front of me doesn't really exist, but damn if the illusion doesn’t look good.

“I like what I see,” I say carefully.

The corners of his mouth go down a bit. “That's all?”

“Your face is attractive. I can't see much of your body.” He shifts, and I add quickly, so that he wouldn’t start undressing or something, “Which is fine!”

“My hands?” He raises them, turning them palms up and down in front of my eyes. I take in the slightly tanned skin, the long fingers, the veins gently rising on the smooth surface. They look so goddamn real it hurts.

“Can I touch?” I say, surprising myself.

He nods, placing his hands on the table, palms down. I reach out and trace the outline of a vein with one finger. His skin is warm. I let my fingers slide to his wrist, and pause there, feeling his steady pulse. On some level, it surprises me—but of course he has a pulse. They live amongst people, they pass medical examinations, they must be the perfect replicas inside and out.

“Taking my vitals?” he says.

I let my hand rest on his. This is the most physical contact I've had in years. I try to keep my distance from the shifters. Of course, there are situations when they brush by me in the corridor, or sit next to me in the cafeteria, but I've never really touched them, not like this, skin-to-skin. It feels so real that I'm suddenly lost. I don't want this. I want to sit in front of an actual cute guy and hold his hand, for real.

“What's wrong?” says Aiden. For a shifter, he’s quite attuned to my mood changes.

“Nothing.” I push my chair back and get up, my fingers still carrying the warmth of his skin. “I think that's enough for today.”

“I'm sorry if I...” he begins, but I just wave him away, turn around and head for my room.