Take-out Love

 Evening has just begun.

I remember five minutes before you arrive

that you are coming over. I scramble

around the living room, sweeping paper plates

and empty water bottles into the trashcan.

Your knock on the door is loud and intrusive.

Should I open it? For a second, I considered changing

the plans, acting as if I was not home, pretending

that I am deathly sick and unable to answer the door.

But in the end of that second, I answer it for my take-out

love. I almost told you that you are lucky to be here.

That I almost took away your evening of watching

me paint my nails, watching the news, watching me

talk on the phone to my real lovers. If I really loved you

my spicy dessert, I would welcome you into my palace

of take-out towers and magazine seas. Instead

I tell you to wait. Wait until I clear my mess, myself,

out of a chair for you to sit. The wine bottle cradled in your arms

looks awkward and out of place. But still I give you a clean smile

and drift into the kitchen for glasses. Is paper cups okay?

You respond with a filthy smile. The only thing messy about you.

And tell me Yes, Dear. Paper cups will do. You gulp your wine,

as if it were beer. And ask to be excused. I crush the paper cup

into a small ball and toss it across the living room

into a pile of personality not far from the TV. And think

about how much I love you. But love myself more. My eyes

land on a taco from last week, the mold creeping into it

like love crept into my life. You return, glancing deep

into my messy world, searching for a place to sit, a place

to stand without stepping on the overflowing room.

I quickly jump to my feet and kiss you goodnight, my excuses

will not satisfy your classic love, but you grin your good guy grin

and begin for the door, stopping only to delicately pick up the wine

which I quickly ask Do you mind if I keep it? The wine was quite good.

A lie. The wine was terrible, but I keep it anyhow

as a souvenir. That evening, although it just begun, was the end

of our evenings together. I cant help but regret two things:

That I didn't bother to clear my subway wrappers from your chair

and that I really never loved you at all.