Daniel Jones - Tiny Love Stories: True Tales of Love in 100 Words or Less

Tiny Love Stories

True Tales of Love in 100 Words or Less

Edited by Daniel Jones and Miya Lee

of Modern Love in The New York Times

artisan | new york

Contents

About Modern Love

Modern Love is a weekly personal essay column about relationships, feelings, betrayals and revelations that began appearing in The New York Times in 2004. In 2016, the column became a weekly podcast; after debuting at #1 on iTunes, it has been downloaded nearly 100 million times. A book of collected columnsModern Love: True Stories of Love, Loss, and Redemption was published in 2019, the same year Amazon Studios released the first season of its Modern Love streaming series, an eight-episode show based on the column.

What Are Tiny Love Stories?

Tiny Love Stories began as a challenge from the editors of Modern Love at The New York Times : What kind of love story can you share in two tweets, an Instagram caption or a Facebook post? Tell us a love story from your own lifehappy or sad, capturing a moment or a lifetimein no more than 100 words. Soon we editors were inundated with submissions, each no longer than the introduction you are now reading. This book contains many of the most delightful and moving stories we received. We hope you enjoy them. Consider submitting your own at nytimes.com/tinylovestories.

The Stories

My Main Men as Meals

My first boyfriend, Howie, was matzo ball soup: warm and homey, wonderful on a cold, wintry day, but not a lot of sex appeal. My previously married ex-husband, John, was leftover fast food: so compelling in the refrigerator, but you were always sorry after eating it. Vinnie, pizza-maker and transition man, was a banquet verging on bacchanal: destined to create heartburn but impossible to stop eating. My now and hopefully forever man, Charles, is bran flakes sprinkled with a few Lucky Charms: He keeps me regular and, on most days, is magically delicious.

Jill Lipton

Clockwise from top left: Chris, me, Greg and Kurt at our childhood home in Kansas City.

When We Became One

We grew up in even numbers. Two parents, four sons, six people. Two boys per bedroom. Summers with two of us at one of our grandparents houses and two at the other, then a switch. Always disciplined, referred to and taught about the facts of life in pairs. Then, in middle age, Kurt called me to say that Greg, the youngest, had unexpectedly died, and I called Chris to tell him. Chris and I flew home, and Kurt met us at the airport. We held each other, and in that moment, four became three became one.

Brian Justice

All-Nighters, Cake, and Netflix

For a decade, Ive watched my former classmates settle into the conventional domestic pattern: husband, wife, baby, house. They look grown up now. They look like their parents. I, however, remain single at 34, pulling all-nighters and eating cake for dinner. I drive an hour for good ramen. I skip town for the weekend. I watch Netflix with impunity. No one is angry about dirty dishes. Marriage sent my classmates down a steadier path, one that rarely crosses my itinerant course. I do miss them. For me, saying Congratulations on your engagement is too often another way of saying Goodbye.

Adam Chandler

The Folly of Date Night

Date night! Tonight we are free! No bottoms to wipe or mouths to feed; its just you and me. We should go out, I say. Run naked in the rain, make love on a train or something. But we dont. Instead, we look at pictures of the children on our phones until we fall asleep.

Emily-Jane Clark

He Tried So Hard to Remember Me

When my 61-year-old father learned he had Alzheimers, we went to CVS together and bought the largest stack of notecards they sold. I asked, Whats the town where you grew up? We wrote Union Springs, Alabama. I asked, Who was your first kiss? Amanda. Four years later, preparing to move my father into memory care, I packed up his desk. Taking the notecards felt silly, so I wrapped the long-forgotten stack in a rubber band and opened his drawer to toss them away. Inside, I found more notecards. They all said the same thing: my name.

Drew Hasson

Dont Send Nudes

We were online content moderators taking down nude photos. All day, we sorted through thousands of photos and messages flagged as inappropriate on a meet-up app. He sat nearby, but our office had a strict no-talking rule, so our relationship began in silence as we sent each other funny things we found via Gchat. This led to more messaging until one day we grew tired of talking about nudes and decided to see each other naked instead.

Kristine Murawski

Our relationship was reassembled with tape.

Torn Up

Im leaving you, she said. Regrettably dramatic, I yanked the photo from its frame and tore it into pieces. Taken the night we first met, the photo was irreplaceable. I imagined tears, then a change of course, reconciliation. Instead, she discarded the shredded pieces in a wastebasket. Its true what they say: The heart can break. Eventually, I reclaimed the pieces and, with tape, carefully reassembled the image. She did leave. Months passed. She came back. My heart mended. The patchwork is in a frame above our couch and reminds us of the fragility of love.

Susan Anderson

Who Cares Less?

He hooked up with someone else. I never texted first. He didnt show up to meet my sister. I was still talking to my ex. We were stuck in a game of Who Cares Less? I won. But really, I lost.

Caroline Kulig

Our Love Tripod

On the eve of the new millennium, I fell in love with Andrew, a dashing English ad executive. Inconveniently, I didnt fall out of love with Scott, an American architectural photographer and my longtime partner. Our dilemma resulted in an unexpected and enduring romance: a V-shaped love triangle sans vows and offspring. Born English, now a naturalized American, I am the hinge in our harmonious household of three: I sleep with both men; they each sleep with only me. We share everything elsehome, finances, friends, vacations, life-threatening calamities. As Scott says, our tripod is more stable than a bipod.

Kate Holt

I Didnt Run

I met David on a blind date. The next day, I invited him over for tea. He appeared on my porch, peeking through the glass, offering me his cupped palms. Its all yours, he said. What? Sweaty hands? No. He beamed. My heart. Typically, this would make me run, but I didnt. He had picked me to hold his heart. His body was ravaged with cancer, but still, I accepted. We laughed. We cried. We married. Twenty-two months after our eyes met, I stood at the river, cupping my palms with ashes, and let go.

Susan Purvis