My Version of Longing’s Version of Longing, by rhea Xie

The woman in the green beret

ordered a “Hateful Love.”

The man behind her

did too.

Someone asked the waiter

what a “Hateful Love” was —

would Hateful Love come out of

the kitchen,

her hair cut too short,

already regretted,

the glowing purple on her face,

a look she had only just begun to try,

a black JanSport,

a red ribbon tied to the zipper,

her loafers loud enough

to drown the café,

passing the tables

one by one,

and, without looking back,

throwing something

into the trash.

I kissed her sleeping eyes.

She woke up.

I told her about the man I loved,

though I did not know him.

She pulled my hair,

telling me to keep going.

Perhaps the man

was only the meaning

that kept our conversation alive.

She turned away,

toward the other girls.

Steal something from the kitchen,

I said.

If we were thieves, she said,

we were too professional.

She walked toward the door.

I ran after her.

The waiter said

“Hateful Love”

was a mixture of

corn chowder

and potatoes.

I thought I would always be

the stone in the Bible

longing to be humiliated.

For a while,

this was my understanding of love.