Hope is the thing that lasts the longest, and the thing that hurts the most. I say this to my friends at dinner, slurping our way through our favorite Vietnamese place. We talk about relationships and I space out, letting my recent slow-drip heartbreak run down my ribs like dipping sauce.
We pay for dinner and learn that the owner is from Hà Giang and has lived in Japan for ten years. He shows us Tiktoks of people there dancing, working on fields, passing through the tall green hills and clear rivers. He says every word with so much pride that I picture myself swimming in the jewel-blue rivers feeling the same joy. I think of my hometown with its long grey winter and short summer, how people are happy enough to bake casseroles to keep their hands warm and never see Vietnam. I’m returning to Minnesota in a few weeks and maybe I’ll finally learn to care about tater-tot hotdish.
We say gochisousama deshita and walk to the Lawson down the block because there’s more to say and it’s chilly. The hot chocolate looks watery, but maybe we’ll get lucky and it’s only a trick of the light. It’s not. We pay and head to the river. One of us finds a good spot far enough away from others and we marvel at how you don’t have to search for things to do in Kyoto. You can always go to the Kamo River and sit, and maybe Trumpet Guy by the bridge figured out how to play this time.
It’s dark enough to be anonymous. The three of us watch the black river trickle down its thin steps as other friends, couples, bikers, and runners pass behind us. The friend we haven’t seen in months talks about relationships again. There’s a woman waiting for him and he has to tell her not to. My problem is the opposite; I’m waiting for someone and tell myself not to. I wipe a line of hot chocolate from my chin and wonder if things will ever stop dripping.
I fill him in on the crush I had for months, the one I’ve given up on a few times. He says He’s a great man. What did you like about him? Every time I sip this cocoa, I hope it’s rich and creamy like the kind I make at home, but it’s only sugared water. He seemed so warm and kind, but never let me know him. I don’t say that I’m grateful for the years I spent learning to be funny if only to be the reason he smiles. That’s too serious. If only my jokes wouldn’t catch in my throat.
We say a quick goodbye and make a plan for our real one, the last time the three of us will be together. The last time we’ll be at our favorite mom-and-pop restaurant in Higashiosaka, the city we became friends in. I walk home, remembering that soon I won’t be able to walk alone at night without a turtle shell of fear at my back.
Towards the East is a star pattern that looks like a check mark, and underneath it is my home. The tree-lined mountain looks black against the navy blue sky and I look forward to seeing it again in the morning, green and glistening. Can mountains be grateful for the years they spent forming if only to be the reason someone like me has something to worship? I shake what’s left in the bottle and wonder if a soul mate could be a place instead of a person. My head tilts back and I finish what I’m drinking.
