More Than Broken Kitchenware
Our first night living together, Steve accidentally broke my small colander. It was the first purchase I’d made for my college-bound self the summer after my mother’s suicide. I had coped with her death with a controlled self-sufficiency. Watching that piece of plastic fly out of Steve’s hands and crack on the floor, I felt my fragile facade of security breaking too. But amid my tears, Steve only wanted to understand why a $12 piece of kitchenware was connected to my pain. He isn’t scared to peek into the darkest layers of my life. Steve sees me as my full self. — Elizabeth Jones
First day in our new apartment.
“Who Are You Sleeping With?”
My husband is Thai by birth and I’m American. He is not demonstrative. That’s part cultural and part who he is. When we were first married I needed to hear the words, but I got used to looking for other signs of his love, such as him cooking my favorite Thai dishes. Twenty years married, we were sitting at a sushi bar waiting for our food when he turned to me and said, “I love you.” Shocked, I said, “Who are you sleeping with?” This November we’ll be married 50 years. I think he loves me. — Lee Chinalai
A Small Hand in Mine
At first, she was the little face I saw in pictures when her mother and I began dating. When the time was right, she was the tiny body standing cautiously in the corner of the living room — wondering, waiting. Before long, she was the small hand in mine as we crossed the street, the smile to prove she had brushed her teeth and the curious voice whispering until we fell asleep. It began to feel as if she were mine. Now, six months after the split with her mother, I realize she was not mine. But I loved her. — Nicole DeMouth
“Just” a Cop
After dating too many fellow lawyers, men unduly concerned about whether I was smarter than them (yes), made more money (rude) or was funnier (duh!), I wondered about sperm donors. Then I met Bert. The exes would have called him “just” a cop. Hellishly good-looking, irrevocably calm and a quiet observer who missed nothing, he was smarter but didn’t need anyone to know it. With so little for him to prove, our income differential was like a height variation: inconsequential when lying down. Thirty years and two children later we’re still the right amount of same, the right amount of different. — Gillian Parson
A Rhyming Love Poem
Friends since childhood with a little crush, until one fall evening when it became too much. A lingering hug led to a kiss — that turned into passion, compounded by bliss. For 35 years we ignored each other (I a procurement agent, she a mother). But as you can tell from our humble pic, you want a love story, this is it! So consider my poem from beginning to end: “The Story of Clay and Rosalind.” — Clay Luckett
