It was a glorious, colorful autumn.

We’d just left the coffee shop. When we walked by, she had giggled and pulled me inside, saying, “C’mon, let’s be basic white girls and get some pumpkin spice!”

I don’t like coffee. I never had. But when she handed me my cup and looked into my eyes while I tried it, it was the best thing I’d ever tasted.

My hand still tingled where she grabbed it.

As we walked through the park with our drinks, a light drizzle began to fall. She pulled out an umbrella from her bag, I pulled up my hood and hunched my shoulders.

“Don’t be silly,” she giggled, pulling me under the umbrella with her. I couldn’t help but laugh too, her laugh is infectious.

As the sun started to shine again, she pulled me down to sit on a bench. She beamed down at me, and I could only gaze back adoringly.

“So Ava…” She began. I knew this tone of voice, it’s dangerous.

“Who do you like?” She whispered, and I looked away. I wanted to say, ‘you, you, a thousand times you. You’re the only one I can ever think about. You’re gorgeous and sweet and funny and…’

Instead, I shrugged my shoulders and looked down at my cup.

She looked at me with a cautious smile. “If I tell you mine, will you tell me yours?”

“Okay.” I said.

“The person I like… …is you.”

I drop my drink.

I know you read the description.

And you expect for me to fall in love with you.

That, or you already read this story and you just want to see me suffer again.

It’s hard to see through the screen… I can’t tell one reader from another, boy or girl. Not that it would matter…

(Blushes deeply) Anyway, that’s not the point.

You should leave.

Why are you going to the next slide?

Stop doing that.

Are you always this stubborn?

I said st-

Don’t interrupt me.

I got married when i was 20 to a man that by all accounts wasn’t bad, but he wasn’t good for me. Long story short, I was married to a loser. He didn’t necessarily do anything wrong, he just didn’t do anything at all. Now, I am not a “typical woman” if there even is such a thing. I love myself. Sure, there are things I want to improve, but I don’t have a problem with my age, or intelligence, or what my body looks like, or my personality- those things that seem to stereotypically plague women just don’t bother me for whatever reason. I have a career where I make more than enough money on my own to live comfortably. I know how to use power tools, fix my own car, and google the shit out of anything else that needs to be done. I say what I mean, and expect others to do the same, none of this passive-aggressive nonsense. But I’m stubborn as a mule, and marriages are supposed to last, so even though I was the primary breadwinner, and did most of the things around the house, and raised my kids mostly on my own, I still spent 13 years in that worthless marriage. At the end of the day, my husband felt like I didn’t need him, because I am very capable. But he was wrong. I needed support. I needed a partner, a friend. Even someone who would see how hard I was working to just keep my head above water. I couldn’t manage EVERYTHING on my own; and I still can’t.

For some perspective at how emotionally isolated I was, I struggled with infertility for three years; I had to take tons of medications & shots that made me sick, tired, have hot flashes, body aches, and migraines for those years; not to mention the emotional drain of every month without fail seeing a single pink line on that damn stick. The emotion of going through a bulk pack of pregnancy tests, or taking photos of your cousin’s child’s first birthday (for the child they conceived after you started trying), is just… a lot to bear; I was very open with my struggles, because i think it helped other people too. Somehow, my husband wasn’t even aware this was a thing that i was needing support in. he had no idea. and it’s not because i didn’t tell him or directly ask him. he just was that thick and lost. he was a five year old trapped as an adult- lacking the ability to give support in that way.

And once I had kids, he was actually more of a burden than a help. I spent most of my time walking on eggshells, trying to balance being exhausted from a high-demand job, making dinner, and praying the kids (who are all-around good kids) didn’t do anything to “poke the bear” while my husband played games on his phone and mostly ignored them. I spent more time trying to keep them from upsetting him than anything else.

When i finally asked him to please leave, everything improved immediately. I could breathe again. I was free of so much dead weight. I was so, so happy to just not-have-him around. It was so much better, I never looked back, and I was ok on my own. Sure, I crawled in to bed every night, feeling ready to collapse at the end of the day. Kids are demanding, after all. But I was free. And I was happy.

But it wears on you.

Paul stared at his wife across the table, noticing for the first time that her sweater was on inside out. Every morning he would lay out her clothes on the bed in a specific order, so she’d know which item to put on first. But it didn’t guarantee how Elaine would put on each piece. He’d have to pay more attention before they went out.

Their usual waitress, Sarah, appeared, holding a large tray with two sweet teas on it. “How y’all doin’ today?”

With Alzheimer’s disease, there were good days, and then there were challenging days. It was one of the latter. Elaine was preoccupied, scrubbing a stain on the wooden table with her finger, forgetting it was a permanent fixture of their booth. They’d been lunching at this diner once a week for years. That blemish had been there since day one.

“Today’s actually a very special day for us. It’s our fifty-seventh wedding anniversary.” His wife stopped fidgeting and looked up. “The day she took a chance on a broke, balding fellow by saying, ‘I do,’” he said with a wink in her direction.

“It is?” Elaine asked.

“Yep, sweetheart, it is.”

“Congratulations, you two! Ms. Sue fixed up some of her key lime pie today and I’ll make sure y’all have a slice on the house before you go. Stickin’ with the Cobb salad and tomato soup?”

“That’s it.” Paul replied.

She nodded and turned, then swung back around. “I just remembered. We ran out of tomato soup about an hour ago. Chicken noodle ok?”

Paul looked at his wife, now scrubbing away at the stain with a napkin.

“Elaine?”

“Hmmm,” she said, again focused on the table.

“They’re out of the tomato soup. Do you want chicken noodle? Or a sandwich instead?” She looked confused, so he pointed to the menu and showed her a few other items he thought she’d enjoy, but she was having a hard time picking something new.

Suddenly she began to cry. “I want to go home. Please can we go home?” she begged.

I know you read the description.

And you expect for me to fall in love with you.

That, or you already read this story and you just want to see me suffer again.

It’s hard to see through the screen… I can’t tell one reader from another, boy or girl. Not that it would matter…

(Blushes deeply) Anyway, that’s not the point.

You should leave.

Why are you going to the next slide?

Stop doing that.

Are you always this stubborn?

I said st-

Don’t interrupt me.

hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 🌚

Since the start of human storytelling history, humans have enjoyed great romance stories from Romeo and Juliet to Helen of Troy. Even horror and adventure stories often include a romantic element. Everybody wants to feel some of that romance and reading very short romantic stories are often a great way to quench that thirst.

My mother said that out of all five of her children

I was the easiest baby

I think what she meant was that I hardly cried,

Rarely fussed

And was generally asleep

Which I guess was a good thing, for her

As the fourth of five she had a lot to deal with before she could get to me

So I made it easier for her

I kept doing it as I grew up

If one of my siblings dropped their ice cream,

I’d give them mine so they’d stop making a scene

When someone had to sit in a middle seat

You can bet that’s where my car seat would be strapped

In fifth grade, when Clara Gomez stole my cookie from my lunch box

I just shrugged, and ate my carrot sticks

My nickname was “montañita”, little mountain

Because I was never moved, never bothered, always calm

In seventh grade, I broke my leg

But I didn’t tell anyone for three days

I just gritted my teeth and hopped along

Until my father found me crying on the bathroom floor

He took me to the hospital, and bought me a cast we couldn’t afford

And when the kids at school called me a cripple

Well, you can guess what I did

In high school, my little sister Sofia was getting picked on by some boys

I pretended I didn’t see it happen

But that night, I switched out her too-small uniform skirt for mine

She stopped getting teased,

And I wore pants for the rest of the year

When my college Algebra professor lost my test and made me retake it, I just nodded and did it

When I got catcalled walking across campus,

I just looked down at the ground

And you

The first day you came up to me and offered to buy me coffee

I was sure you were making fun of me too

So I stayed quiet

Eventually, you flashed me that blinding smile and told me, “Guess I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

I think I said about three words to you that first day

But I gave you my number

And answered when you called.

....

The impact was jarring. Unexpected. Painful.

Not at all how it is in the movies. Nor the books. It was gross. Gritty. Raw.

His messenger bag had checked her hard in the stomach, no doubt several bruises itching to arise.

Her hot beverage stained his cream colored sweater, no doubt scalding on his bare hands.

Both umbrellas had been knocked into the dirty puddles, the sheets of rain unforgiving.

Despite the bone-chilling weather, ruined clothing, and bodily injuries, they couldn’t escape the buzzing intensity of a connection.

Her gaze was locked on the damping hair, wondering if the hue of blond was real. His gaze was pinned to her widening eyes, curious as to how many tints of blue he could identify.

Hmmm 🧐

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