Caramel Crush
As his barista, I wasn’t subtle: caramel hearts on his latte, my number on the cup. “We need to go out sometime,” I said. Multiple times. He thought I was being friendly. My advances rebuffed and confidence shaken, I had one final try in me. “I’m in a fashion show for the vintage shop around the corner — you should come.” “Yeah, maybe. …” That night, walking the “runway,” I scanned for him. No sign. Commiserating with friends outside, I said, “I guess it isn’t meant to be.” Then, a tap on my shoulder. “Am I too late?” “Not at all.” — Caanan Reiersgaard
The Language She Won’t Forget
Every night, dementia takes more of Grandma Josephina’s English. Last week, “I love you” became “Main tumse pyar karti hoon.” I didn’t understand. She repeated it, frustrated, until my mother translated from our kitchen in Panama: Hindi, the language of her childhood, before immigration, widowhood, illness. Now I answer her in phrases I’ve learned from YouTube, badly pronounced. She smiles anyway. Love, it turns out, is the only language that doesn’t need translation. — Argelia Salmon
A Second, Unexpected Adolescence
“Hold on,” my date says. “Let me just move the car seats.” She tosses them into her trunk, and we make out in the back seat on a dark suburban street. In my 40s, recently separated, I thought the last person I’d ever kiss was the man I married 13 years ago. Instead, I’m dating women. I’m going to sex parties. I’m kissing my college boyfriend outside my parents’ retirement home. I bring my orthopedic pillow on overnight dates now. But I also feel free, like a teenager discovering the world again. — Lia Romeo
After Lent
Dave was the widower of my childhood best friend. I was divorced after 25 years of marriage. As he delivered a eulogy for the woman we both adored, I mused to myself, Oh, to be loved like that! Months later, when we bumped into each other, I invited him to a concert scheduled the night before Lent. I’d given up dating, chocolate and alcohol for 40 days. We spoke on the phone for hours, sharing our life stories. The Tuesday after Easter, Dave was on my doorstep, flowers in hand. We fell into each other’s arms and haven’t left. — Mari McNeil
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