"I don't know, Miss Grayson," Richard moaned, gripping the stylus in his hand hard enough to discolor his knuckles.

"Don't get frustrated," Amanda urged, leaning back in her seat to give her young student some room. "Let's go over what we do know. We know that fifteen plus four-"

"I'm bad at this," Richard interrupted, his tone rough and cold.

"You're not bad at this," she corrected. "Math just not one of your stronger suits, but we're working on it."

"Why don't I understand?" he asked.

The exasperation on his face pricked at her. She hated seeing him so discouraged, and she hated herself a little bit for being unable to make it easier for him. There had to be some method for helping him with his difficulties with this subject.

"Richard, we all have different gifts," she tried.

"Why does everyone say that?" he seethed. "Maybe if I could do this stuff he would want to spend time with me."

It was becoming harder to keep her composure. She suspected that Richard Daystrom tied his self-worth to his intelligence, or more correctly, his school performance. His father was a renowned computer scientist and Richard seemed to be under the impression that if he were better at math then perhaps the senior Daystrom might love him more. It broke her heart and made her want to throttle Henry for spending so much time in his lab with his precious computers and so little time with his son.

She could see the cab she called pulling up to the curb, but just when she was about to check the time, the door buzzed. Richard flopped his head and arms down on the table in frustration.

"That must be your father," Amanda said, rubbing his back. "Come on."

She answered the door to a tall man with a dark complexion and slightly sunken cheeks that suggested he wasn't eating or sleeping as well as he should be. Henry Daystrom might have been handsome were it not for the sour expression he usually wore.

"Good morning, Miss Grayson," Dr. Daystrom murmured. "I am here to collect Richard."

She found his incredible formality off-putting, but she'd never managed to break him of the habit no matter how many times she asked him to call her by her given name. They wandered into the tiny kitchen and found Richard much as she'd left him, heaped into a pile of despair and confusion on her small pub table.

"Let's go, Richard," called Henry's rich voice.

"Can't I stay, dad?" he asked.

"Let's not waste any more of Miss Grayson's time," Henry urged.

Amanda exchanged nervous glances with Henry. What had started off as an offer to watch his son on Friday evening had turned into an all-weekend affair, with Henry occasionally sending messages informing her that he was in the verge of a big breakthrough and pleading with her to watch him for just a few more hours. Two days later, she suspected his eureka moment was still hiding somewhere far on the horizon.

Ordinarily she wouldn't mind if Richard hung around her house — he so often did anyway — but she had to meet her new Vulcan friend on the other side of town in less than an hour, and Sarek didn't strike her as the kind of person who would be amused by tardiness. Their partnership was already tenuous and she was eager to avoid another misunderstanding.

"If you stay, I'm just going to make you keep working on your math drills," she teased.

Richard groaned and tucked his head between his arms again. Amanda bit her lip and went to collect Richard's things and gather her purse and cloth shopping bags while father and son battled it out.

After several more minutes of grumbling and groaning, the three of them left her small duplex townhouse. Richard and Henry turned left to return home to the neighboring duplex and Amanda waved goodbye and jumped into the waiting cab.

After ten minutes and a lot of anxiety-ridden pleas to the driver to go a little faster, she arrived at the High Speed Bay Area Rail — locally known as the BAR, making it the subject of many hackneyed jokes — and barely made the 0935 shuttle to Sausalito. When the shuttle emerged from the tunnel beneath the bay, she was pleased to see scattered rays of sunshine peeking through small breaks in the clouds. Maybe the rain was over.

She leapt to her feet when the train slid to a stop, checking the time on her PADD and noting the heavy traffic through the long glass windows. The French Toast Café was not quite within convenient walking distance of the rail station, but even if she could find a cab, traffic was completely gridlocked. She hopped from the rail car, skipping the last step and glanced around.

She needed to cover 14 blocks in nine minutes; she could make it if she ran. She looked down at herself. She wore sensible flat shoes with a pair of khaki-colored slacks — not ideal attire for a morning run, but not the worst either.

She pushed through the crowds at the open-air station, found her way to the street, and then took off at an impatient jog, weaving in between throngs of Sunday morning shoppers and diners and apologizing as she bumped people. A deep cramp quickly emerged in her right side. She dug her knuckles into her gut and pushed on, thinking it was probably a sign she needed to exercise more frequently.

Amanda could identify him from half a block away, standing tall and rigid by the entrance to the eatery and looking like a cross between a palace sentry and a man waiting for a funeral. He was dressed in black and clutched her umbrella to his chest like a drill sergeant at port arms. She slowed to a brisk walk and smoothed her short hair down with her fingers and adjusted the fit of her blouse. It was sticky under her arms and there was a fine, disgusting layer of moisture forming on her brow. She prayed he wouldn't notice.

She tried to breathe normally but her lungs still craved oxygen. She took several more breezy steps, inhaled deeply, and said as naturally as she could, "Good morning, Sarek."

His neck twisted to observe her and she noted the slight uptick of his left brow and she started to feel like a sweaty racehorse after a morning workout. "Are you well?"

"Of course," she lied, trying to get her breathing under control without passing out. "Why do you ask?"

"Your complexion is quite red."

"Is it?" she shrugged. She made a show of fanning herself with her right hand. "Well, it's a little warm outside this morning." Only it wasn't. It was actually cool for a late spring day thanks to the recent rains.

His eyebrow inched higher as he held out the umbrella and said, "This apparatus belongs to you.

"So it does," she replied, taking it from him. "Anyway, I'm glad you found the place alright. I hope I didn't keep you waiting."

"You are two minutes overdue."

"Two minutes, huh?" she replied, her words tumbling out in a gasping laugh. "Well, no one's perfect."

"I am aware. Individual perfection is unattainable and the standards used to assess any perfection would be subjective."

She put her hands on her hips and stared at this strange man. His face was serious as a heart attack and his posture was almost as severe as the lines of his haircut.

"Right," she agreed with a small sigh. "Would you like to go inside and get something to eat?"

"If you believe it is appropriate." He pivoted on his heel and opened the door to the busy café.

He followed Amanda inside and they found their way to the end of a long line that snaked in a zigzag pattern in the middle of the room. She noticed the atmosphere of the café shift as almost every patron in the French Toast Café observed Sarek, some discreetly and others not. She almost felt angry on his behalf; they were treating him like he was some kind of oddity from a cruel, antiquated carnival sideshow.

If she were being completely honest with herself though, she would probably stare too, not because she thought he didn't belong here, but because… well, he didn't belong here. He was something of an oddity; she'd never seen a Vulcan wandering around Sausalito and felt certain the same was true for almost everyone else in the establishment.

Rather than spend time dwelling on her hypocrisy, the nature of human curiosity, and the social complexities of self-imposed segregation, she turned to Sarek and smiled. Her forced cheer faded when she spied a woman sitting at a table just behind him transfixed by his presence, her coffee cup frozen in midair and her mouth sagging open. Surely he had to notice, but his expression remained smooth and unaffected.

Maybe it had been a mistake to ask him to meet her in a crowded café. Or maybe this was exactly the point: if Sarek wanted to learn about humans, he was going to have to be around them. She swallowed and turned her eyes in the direction of the large, overhead menu without moving her head. "So I take it you've never been here."

"Your assumption is correct."

"Um, well, this place makes really good food."

"I defer to your judgment."

"Well, does anything on the menu sound good to you?"

"I have already taken my first meal and do not require further sustenance."

"Oh." She wanted to keep the conversation going, but every sentence he spoke felt like the final word of an authority figure.

Amanda was a social creature who loved conversation — she often said there wasn't anyone she couldn't get along with — but Sarek seemed determined to put her theory to the test. Not everyone liked small talk, but she knew people liked to talk about themselves, so she tried a different approach.

"I was thinking of getting a bacon and egg sandwich," she announced, inching forward with the line. "What do you normally eat for breakfast in the mornings?"

"Broth."

"Broth as in soup? For breakfast?"

"It is a customary first meal."

"Just soup though?"

"Plomeek broth is often served with hard pastries called kreyla."

"And do you drink anything? Coffee? Tea? Juice? Milk?"

"Milk is for infants," Sarek replied, staring ahead at the menu.

Amanda took a deep breath, sensing that continuing to talk would be an annoyance but afraid of things turning even more awkward during a prolonged period of silence.

"What is bacon?" he asked.

Her eyes flicked in his direction and she was startled to realize he was watching her. "It's cured pork."

"And is not pork a meat product of pigs?"

"Well, it used to be. No one slaughters animals anymore — we haven't for decades ever since they invented... what are they called? Protein sequencers? I'm not exactly sure about the science, but they produce meat in labs now. "

"Protein re-sequencers," he corrected. "And yes, I am aware."

"When I was doing my research for my unit study, I read that Vulcans don't eat meat," she replied.

"Most Vulcans do not consume meat or any animal products."

"I don't think humans technically do either," she argued. "Like I said, we produce meat, eggs, cheese, milk, and even honey in protein re-sequencers."

"I am quite familiar with the technology," he replied. "Yet synthesized meat is still modeled upon the flesh of an animal even if the protein is harvested from bacteria. The standard Vulcan diet has been plant-based since the Reformation, and though some Vulcans will consume synthesized meat, the substance holds no appeal for me."

"What, what?" Amanda choked.

"I believe I spoke clearly. Meat isn't-"

"No, what was that about bacteria?"

"Bacteria serve as the source of amino acids for protein re-sequencers. Researchers at the Vulcan Science Academy have made remarkable progress in the development of a general matter replicator from standard energy sources which would make current methods obsolete, yet-"

"What can I get for you, sir? Ma'am?" a voice interrupted.

The man behind the counter was making a concerted effort not to gawk rudely at Sarek. She shuffled to the counter, shifting her weight on her feet. A bacon and egg sandwich had sounded so good, but now all she could think of was E. coli. She found herself ordering a bagel with peanut butter instead.

"And anything to drink?"

"Coffee please."

"It's complementary," the server replied. "You can help yourself at the counter behind you."

"Thanks," she mumbled before turning to Sarek and asking, "Are you sure you don't want anything?"

"I am certain."

Amanda paid and slogged her bags and umbrella over to the coffee bar to pour herself a cup. She gazed longingly at the cream dispenser, but sensing Sarek's eyes upon her and recalling his comments about how protein re-sequencers worked, she opted for several scoops of sugar.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked, taking a sip. It was still more bitter than she would prefer without the milk, but it was passable.

"It seems a popular beverage," he remarked. "If I am correct in my understanding, it is a form of tea brewed from the fruit of a tree."

She was about to correct him and explain that coffee came from beans, not fruit, but she realized she didn't really know. She resolved to research it later.

"It is pretty popular," she laughed, cupping the warm drink in her hands. "You should give it a try."

He glanced at her and pulled a paper cup from the top of the stack, looking about as natural as a fish trying to swim in sand. "What is decaf?" He placed unusual emphasis on the latter half of the word, turning it into "de-CAFF."

"Oh, it's decaffeinated. I prefer mine with caffeine. It's hard to see the point of decaffeinated coffee, honestly," she laughed, raising the cup to her lips.

"You prefer to consume a mild methylxanthine class psychoactive stimulant?"

"Is that what caffeine is?"

"Yes."

"Well then, yeah. That's the whole point of coffee."

They stared at each other, unblinking. He kept a tenuous grasp of the cup and turned toward the dispensing machine. Amanda wondered if he was afraid of offending her by selecting the wrong coffee, and quickly added, "But decaf is good too. It's just not my favorite. Give it a try."

She was pleased to see he did as she recommended and filled the cup three-quarters of the way with the decaffeinated blend. It occurred to her that he was mirroring her actions, and only then did she realize she'd left room for cream at the top of her cup.

"Is it customary to add sucrose?" he asked, studying the rows of sweeteners.

"Well, coffee is one of those things that is almost unique to the individual," she explained. "Some people drink it black — as is — and some like milk or sugar or both."

He seemed conflicted, and when his eyes met hers, she realized she was staring at him. She blushed. How could he make a simple task like getting a cup of coffee so awkward? Or was she the one making it weird?

She heard the man behind the counter call her name, signaling her bagel was ready, so she left him to try the coffee without a captive audience. She hauled her purse, cloth shopping bags, food, and beverage to a small table in the corner and waved for him to join her. When he took a seat, she asked, "So what do you think of the coffee?"

"It is… unusual."

"You don't like it?"

"It is more bitter than I anticipated," he replied, moving to take a sip.

"If you don't like it, you don't like it," Amanda assured him. "Don't feel obligated to drink it just because I invited you to try it. I guess coffee is something of an acquired taste."

He set the cup on the table and nodded.

"So what do you normally drink in the mornings?" she asked.

"I routinely drink spice tea," he replied. "Or water."

"I can get you some tea. I'm not sure what Vulcan spice tea is like, but maybe the guy at the counter will have some recommendations," she offered, hopping to her feet. He seemed genuinely confused by her action and craned his neck upward to stare at her.

"Will you permit me a query?"

"Um, sure?"

"Why do you trouble yourself for my comfort?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "I guess I'm trying to be polite. You know, be a good host."

"This is not your home."

"You know what I mean," she chuckled. "I invited you here to discuss your culture and teach you a little bit about my own. I just want you to be comfortable."

He bobbed his head and looked away. "I see."

His voice was quieter, even if only by a half decibel. She felt heat rising in her face again. "Is that ok? Have I done something wrong?"

"You are apparently adhering to human social conventions that I am unfamiliar with."

"And you seem to be judging me by Vulcan social customs that I'm unfamiliar with," she responded. "You can tell me, you know. I'd rather know what I'm doing wrong than continue to unintentionally embarrass myself."

"Embarrassment is illogical."

Amanda gave him a pointed look. "Just tell me."

"To a Vulcan, it is considered inappropriate for a woman to serve a man who is not her mate."

"Oh," Amanda gasped, slumping down in her chair and wondering if it was possible for her face to spontaneously combust from mortification. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean- I didn't know-"

"As I explained, you were attempting to satisfy a human social custom and we are in a human dining establishment on a planet inhabited primarily by humans. Perhaps it is I who should apologize."

"If we both have to apologize, maybe neither of us should," she mused. "It's obvious we're from very different cultures and neither of us would intentionally offend the other."

"Logical."

"So why don't we come to an agreement and just be honest with each other when one of us commits a serious social faux pas?"

He cocked his head. "Foe paw?"

"You know, a social mistake?"

"You often use idiomatic language to which I am ignorant."

She supposed she never really thought about it before. Sarek spoke so flawlessly and formally that she assumed it was an affectation, but when she considered Standard English almost certainly wasn't his first language, she figured she was probably being unfair.

"I'll try to speak more simply," she replied, taking a bite of her bagel.

"Thank you. I consent to your terms. Honesty is most logical." Sarek studied her as she sunk her teeth into the dense bread. His dark, probing eyes made her feel a bit self-conscious.

"Will you explain the origin of the phrase 'foe paw?'" he asked after she swallowed her first bite.

She swallowed and set the bagel down. "It's French, actually. I think it literally means 'false step,' but English borrowed it several centuries ago and broadened the meaning. It's probably not included in the Standard dictionary."

He seemed to accept her explanation. Amanda took a sip of her coffee and continued to work at her breakfast, all the while conscious of his eyes upon her. She'd forgotten what a messy, sticky food peanut butter was and just how chewy bagels were. She took a large gulp of her coffee to wash it all down and folded her hands across the table.

"So, how do you want to do this?"

"Clarify."

"Well, you're going to teach me about Vulcans and I'm going to teach you about humans. How do you want to go about it?"

"As it was your proposal, I presumed you would handle responsibility for the curriculum."

She clicked her teeth together and repressed an anxious smile. She'd wanted to spend some time going over her lesson plans on Andoria and Tellar Prime to model her lesson plan on Vulcan in a similar way, but she'd had Richard all weekend and hadn't found an opportunity. She recalled many of the popular culture topics off the top of her head — art, music, literature, holidays, gestures of greeting, foods and dining, styles of dress — and figured food would be as good a place to start as any, given the current setting. She pulled her PADD from her purse and set it on the table.

"What if we discussed food? You know, what do Vulcans eat, not eat, dining customs, that kind of thing? I already know you don't eat meat and you like soup for breakfast."

"Asal-yem."

"Hmmm?"

"Asal-yem, the first meal," Sarek explained. "You refer to it as breakfast."

"Oh, ok," she grinned. She initiated the recorder on her PADD and went to make a note. "How do you spell that?"

"There are several phonetic spelling conventions between the Vulcan language and Federation Standard English," he replied.

Amanda frowned and wrote down "asallyam" and made a note to go back and check the spelling later.

"Responsibility for preparing the first meal often falls to the male of a partnership, unless the house is hosting guests."

"So, men tend to do the cooking? And why are guests an exception?"

"Males traditionally prepare first meal, females prepare end meal, and midday meals are rarely consumed within the home. When guests are present, it is expected that they will rise early and prepare the first meal for the household."

"That's so interesting," Amanda murmured. "On Earth, at least in every culture I know of, hosts always serve the guests. It would be rude in most cases to ask a guest to do any kind of work, unless you were close friends or maybe extended family. The idea is you want to make the guest feel as welcomed as possible."

"Vulcans also strive to welcome their guests," Sarek explained. "They are made welcome by contributing to the operation of the household."

"I guess I can see that," Amanda nodded. "You want to make them fit in. As a guest, I've always felt a little weird having people try to wait on me. It's kind of funny, you know – in so many cultures, the social expectation is that a host should do all of these things for their guests but a gracious guest should politely refuse, so you often end up with an awkward back and forth where the host insists on letting the guest relax but the guest insists on helping the host."

"Illogical."

"It is, isn't it?" Amanda smiled. "Anyway, so you said Vulcans eat broth — what did you call it? Plameek?"

"Plomeek, yes. It is a traditional breakfast with a number of variations. Recipes tend to be unique to families."

"Humans do the same thing with a lot of foods," Amanda admitted. "My mom has secret recipes for all kinds of things: chili, salad dressing, salsa."

Sarek's eyes narrowed slightly and she wondered if he had any idea what she was talking about, so she tried explaining that chili was a savory, often spicy stew, salad dressing was a sauce served over leafy vegetables, and salsa was a blend of tomatoes, onions, peppers, and other spices eaten with crisps. Then she had to explain what crisps were.

He listened patiently, and when she finally finished bumbling through an explanation about corn, flour, and deep-fried versus baked crisps, he nodded. "Vulcans do not touch food with their hands, excepting the preparation process."

Amanda frowned. Maybe that's why he'd watched her eat her bagel with such hesitant curiosity. She wondered what a Vulcan party tray or buffet was like, but stopped short of asking aloud. It seemed safe to assume there was no such thing as a Vulcan sandwich.

They talked for the next several hours, covering typical lunches, suppers, holiday meals and dining traditions of their respective cultures. The more they talked, the more relaxed she became, finally understanding that she'd misjudged Sarek more than she thought. He wasn't rude at all.

She began to get a picture of a man who was intensely curious but too reserved to express his curiosity in any open way. The more he talked of his people, the better she understood that Vulcans were true to their reported natures: logical. From their treatment of houseguests to the simplicity of their cooking to their direct manner of their speech, Vulcans didn't do anything with ostentatious flair.

She would almost say she liked him, and felt better knowing that her theory that she could get along with anyone was still true. When she moved on to her fourteenth page of notes about Vulcan cuisine, she realized it was 1321 hours. They'd been talking for almost three and a half hours?

"I just noticed the time," she mumbled. "I didn't mean to keep you for so long."

"I am not due anywhere until tomorrow morning," he replied.

"Right, but it's still your day off. I'm sure you have other things to do besides sit here with a teacher and talk about food."

"Our discussion has been very informative."

"Well, would you like to meet again next Sunday? Maybe we could talk about art?"

"If that is what you prefer."

"Well, what do you want to learn about?"

"Miss Grayson, you have been helpful, but I had hoped to learn more of the nuances of human social interaction."

She paused. "That's such a… huge and complex topic. I wouldn't even really know where to begin. Most human social rules are unwritten, and they vary among cultures. I'm sure it's the same with Vulcans."

"There are several well-known Vulcan publications dealing with social etiquette and behavior."

"You really write down all of your social rules and norms?"

"It is logical to have a catalogue by which to teach children the standards of manners and appropriate behavior."

Amanda tried to keep from gawking at him again, choosing instead to purse her lips and nod. "I don't know how to help you off the top of my head. I mean, I'll try. But I think the best way to figure out how to act in social situations is to put yourself in them. Watch people and do as they do."

"I do not know that your suggestion would be effective in my case, as humans seem to behave differently in my presence."

Amanda chewed her lip, hating that he'd noticed he was an object of novelty. "People aren't used to seeing a lot of Vulcans in public. I mean, you have no idea how hard it was to even find you when I was looking for a Vulcan to come to the exchange fair. I always got the sense Vulcans kept to their own."

"You speak truly. It is regrettable."

His admission floored her. "You make it sound like you think Vulcans should be a more social."

"There is much that can be learned from other species," he explained. "And I am grateful for your efforts to educate me on yours."

He was grateful? Amanda felt emboldened by a sudden sense of responsibility to him. She was a teacher and Sarek wanted to learn, but more importantly, he seemed to share her feelings that their two cultures could benefit from spending a little more time in the other's presence. She hadn't imagined taking on such a complex and convoluted task as outlining the vast range of fickle human social conventions for a Vulcan diplomat, but if he was willing to learn, she was willing to try.

"You said you don't have anywhere to be until tomorrow?"

"Affirmative."

"Well, I didn't have any grand plans for today, other than to go to the market and get some groceries. If you really want to learn what makes humans tick, I think the best way is probably just to dive right into every day life. Care to join me?"

"Your plan seems arbitrary," he replied.

"It is," she confessed. "Human nature is pretty arbitrary."

He shifted in his seat, his dark and steady eyes focused on her. "Then I thank you and submit myself to your tutelage."