When Lies Turn Into Prophecies
A very drunk man won’t stop telling me about trains. The Cape Town summer is hot, the night sticky, my drink warm. This gay bar will surely sink, given the number of heaving bodies shoved inside it. I nod at the train-talker, plotting an escape, and you appear. Your accent is cute, your beard cuter, and you tell the train guy that we’re here together. Suddenly, we are here together. It isn’t a lie; it’s a prophecy, and a good one at that. Ten years, three countries, five cities, four dogs and two toddlers later, we’re still here, together. — Michael McClelland
It Could’ve Been a Fling
We were staying at the same Airbnb, full of foreigners in the north of New Zealand, hoping to make money picking kiwi fruit (an open, essential business during coronavirus). We crossed paths often in the kitchen: seven people dodging each other to make coffee and cook breakfast before driving to the orchards. He was always shirtless. One night, I watched a movie with him and his friends. He sat close to me. Was that on purpose? Finally, I talked to him, for hours, the day his roommate came back, precluding any privacy. I said, “I’m leaving tomorrow.” He said, “That’s sad.” Shoot. — Serena Runyan
Missing Him
My husband urged me to pull over. I was sobbing, an increasingly regular occurrence. “I can’t do this without you,” I said. “You can,” he said. “Lots of people do.” “But we’re supposed to grow old and crusty together!” “You get to grow old and crusty,” he said. Then, his smile fading: “I want you to know it’s OK if you meet someone. Be open to the possibility.” Violent head shake. “Nope, you’ve ruined me for other men.” Pat on my knee, that beaming smile back, “You’ve ruined me too, dear.” How I miss you. — Stephanie Martin Glennon
His Comfort Becomes Mine
Every night, my 3-year-old, Rohaan, insists on falling asleep with his palm on my cheek. Sometimes, his hand smells of glue and balloons. Sometimes, he wakes during the night and again demands, “Hand on your face.” When I can, I sneak away to read articles, statistics, the history of the 1918 pandemic’s end, accounts of coronavirus patients dying alone. I try to understand what I can’t. Exhausted, I return to bed, squeezing in between my husband and toddler. Listening to the new quiet of Karachi, Pakistan, I place Rohaan’s small palm back on my cheek and find sleep. — Zofishan Umair
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https://www.nytimes.com/2020/05/26/style/tiny-modern-love-stories-coronavirus-its-ok-if-you-meet-someone.html
2020-05-26 23:12:11Z
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