Page 96 of From Beijing, With Love

“These would make the perfect gifts,” Poppy said as she glanced up at the wall of ornate chopsticks.

“For the queen, maybe.” Daniel squinted at the price tags. They had a whole lot of zeros. Before he could even finish doing the currency conversion in his head, Poppy had already picked out a dozen.

As they strolled down Nakamise Street, Daniel let Poppy pull him from shop to shop, mumbling apologies as he bumped into passersby on the street.

“This is cute,” Poppy said, stretching out the syllable as she held a graphic tee up to Daniel’s torso. It was black with a neon-pink portrait of a futuristic koi fish on the front. It was too cyberpunk for Daniel’s wardrobe, but he could get into it. “You should get it. Retail therapy and all that. This trip is all about recovering from”—she lifted her brows—“you-know-who.”

“I literally haven’t thought about Taylor in forever.” That was the truth. After Taylor’s voice note, Daniel hadn’t thought about him once.

“Good for you! But I’m not talking about that cheating asshole with the tiny dick.” She looked at him, her lips pressed together.

“Oh. Yang … It was a two-week thing. We knew from the get-go that whatever we had would end when I left China. I’m not exactly allowed to be heartbroken about it,” Daniel said with a shrug, looking away. He grabbed the graphic tee from Poppy. “You know what? I like this. I’m getting it.”

As he stepped up to the register, he spotted a stack of bookmarks, calling him out on the lie he’d just told. Whether he was allowed to be or not, he was heartbroken over Yang. He carried it around like a physical wound, a dull ache humming in the background until it was lit aflame with the slightest touch. He picked up a bookmark from the stack, feeling its thick cardstock between his fingers. It bore an illustration of the temple, adorned with cherry blossoms.

“This too. Arigato.” Daniel passed the bookmark to the cashier, hoping he hadn’t butchered the Japanese word too badly.

“A little help?” Poppy ambled over with an armload of stuff—T-shirts, incense, paper fans, and a plushie on the verge of falling from her arms.

“Leave some for everyone else.” Daniel rescued the plushie. It was an aggressively adorable shark.

“I forgot you’re no fun.”

“To shop with?”

“No fun period,” Poppy deadpanned.

“Well, I have other redeeming qualities, probably.” He nudged her. “Now pay for these so we can go to the temple … today, preferably.”

They did make it into the temple eventually, after stopping for melon pans filled with matcha ice cream, chewy imokins fresh out of the oven, and the most refreshing bowl of shaved ice drizzled with sakura syrup.

The interior of the temple smelled of incense and echoed with the collective noise of the crowd. Once Daniel quelled the same old anxiety that inevitably rose whenever he was in an enclosed space with too many people, he was able to appreciate the temple’s beauty. He looked beyond the red-lacquered wood beams and golden lamps and stared directly into the eyes of the whiskered dragon in the ceiling fresco.

“Let’s go check out the garden,” Poppy said, a gentle hand on his arm as a woman walked backward into them while photographing the gilded altar.

“Only if you’re ready to go. I’m fine in here, really.” Daniel meant it. It took him a minute (or two), but he’d gotten there. Perhaps his time in China had inoculated him just a little. He tossed a smile Poppy’s way. “You are the human equivalent of a bomb-sniffing dog, if you swap out the bomb for anxiety.”

“Your metaphor sucks.” Poppy rolled her eyes, her hand not leaving his arm until they stepped out of the temple.

They strolled down the winding stone path of the garden. A pagoda stood in the distance, framed by lush flowering trees and meandering streams that fed into a pond. Daniel closed his eyes and luxuriated in the warmth of the butter-yellow sun for a moment. He was going to miss seeing the sun when he went back to Amsterdam.

“Look. Koi,” Poppy said as they stood on top of the stone bridge. Resting their elbows on the railing, they watched the rainbow of koi swim lazily in the stream below.

“Just like old times.” Daniel smiled at Poppy. They’d stood in this exact position on the bridges of Amsterdam with drinks in hand more times than Daniel could count—fresh mint tea for him and an oat latte for her. “I miss that. Not trying to guilt-trip you into coming back early. You are clearly killing it in China, and you gotta do what’s best for you. Just know that you are missed. A little bit.” He pinched his fingers together.

“I miss you more than a little bit.” Poppy made a face at him. “And I miss life back in Amsterdam too. I don’t know … Work’s fine. I could deal with the long hours and the bullshit hierarchy. Even the hypercompetitiveness. But it just seems that no matter how hard I try, there’ll always be this invisible divide between me and everyone else.”

“How so?” Daniel turned to her, surprised. He had always envied Poppy for being able to wear her Chinese identity without ambiguity. He had thought she’d fit right in in China.

“It’s hard to explain. It’s like I see the world differently than the people around me. Am I making sense?”

“Of course you are.” He draped an arm around her. “You did all your growing up abroad. If that didn’t make a difference, what would?”

“It makes me feel like an alien. An invisible foreigner. In their eyes, I’m too dark, too foulmouthed, too opinionated, and that’s not even touching on the fact that I’m not exactly straight and ready to play wifey,” Poppy said with a humorless laugh. “I’m twenty-five and well on my way to becoming a leftover woman, as they’d say. Can you believe that bullshit? As much as China has progressed, it’s not progressive. Not on the same scale as what I’m used to, at least. There’s just this quiet, systemic intolerance of people they deem different—like queer people—all in the name of tradition and family. And people wield it like a weapon against anyone that steps out of line.”

“I got the same sense from Yang, though not in as many words,” Daniel said, his heart aching at the thought of Yang, at how hard it was for him to embrace himself, to pursue what made him happy.

“But it wasn’t always like this. There was a time in Chinese history where queer people lived openly, you know?” Poppy said, her eyes fixed on the flowing stream below. “There’s a word in the Chinese gay dictionary, duanxiu. It translates to cut sleeve. The story behind it is that Emperor Ai of the Han dynasty woke up to find his lover—his male lover—asleep on top of his shirt sleeve. To not disturb his lover’s rest, he sacrificed the expensive garment by cutting off its sleeve.” Poppy smiled a little, then it faded. “And now, two thousand years later, we’ve only gone backward.”