The Man With Dimples
I used to be 41, single and now not looking. Rushing back to work from lunch, I used to be climbing the Metro stairs when a briefcase brushed against my leg. A tall man in a Barbour jacket excused himself — a rarity in Paris — and smiled, revealing his dimples. We entered the identical Metro automotive, and five stops later, each exited. “Madame, when you don’t stop following me, I’ll call the police,” he said, as we waited to cross the road. His dimples reappeared, and shortly after, I used to be now not single. — Rebecca Gaghen Veron
Loving a Recent Person
My mother, Lisbeth, knew the right way to be fully present for me, the right way to cool my fevers and emotions, the right way to coax manners and laughter. When she stopped remembering, I spotted that as a substitute of resisting and lamenting, I needed to learn to like a latest person: a mother with no shared history, no nurturing glances, no urge to inform me to eat fewer desserts. When she looked into my light green eyes, similar to hers, and smiled broadly — perhaps believing I used to be her old college roommate — I knew I may very well be fully present for her, too. — Tim F. Nichols
Sitting In Silence
A miscommunication made Amir think I used to be into meditation, so our first date was at a Buddhist temple. We barely got introductions out of the way in which before sitting side by side in silence for 75 minutes (time I spent wondering if I had at all times breathed so loudly). Afterward, we got tacos and talked in regards to the audacity of the lady who berated a monk because mantras didn’t calm her when stuck in Dallas traffic. Several dates later, I admitted that I hate meditating. Amir didn’t care. Nearly two years into our marriage, he meditates every morning while I start the crossword. — Jeramey Kraatz
Icy Clarity
My sister and I left our brother’s funeral like captives escaping, gravel flying behind us. We would have liked a ritual cleansing. The memorial was unbearable, just as our relationships with him had grow to be. He was sensible but had demons. We were furious at his drinking, furious at losing him when he was only 30. At the key beach where we scattered his ashes, the sun glared down. We walked deep into the briny water, rocks stabbing our feet. Holding hands, we went under, shocked into icy clarity. We emerged numb, unable to feel the sharp edges of the shore beneath us. — Julianna Miner
