She's 17.

She tells us in her sing-song voice that she's only been studying for six months.

She studies seven arts, including chado, including dance.

She says she had to learn to talk this way, too.

Look at the decorations in her hair—she will only wear these this week, maybe next, maybe last. The pattern on her kimono, it's the same with that. The okiya owns a piece of every season.

She says she only sees her parents once a year.

And, after she finishes her studies, she is obligated to work two years.

That's all we know.

Only her bottom lip is painted red; she has a permanent smile.

We observe her pouring our drinks. She lashes her sleeves to her wrists to keep them out of our laps and plates.

But when she is being seen, her hands retreat inside the sleeves. She becomes a porcelain doll, silent and breakable. (Dare not touch.)

We can't ask about the other things. We worry about the truth of those.

So we enjoy her youthfulness, her cheerfulness.

We watch her try out her dancing. Later, we peek as she sits in the alcove sharing our meal.