tiny love stories 2022 calendar, pt 2.

[hyojungss]

part 1

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Everything New for You
Tuesday, July 5

Barbecue. Introduction, joke, smile. Friend request, message sent. First date: loud restaurant, easy conversation. Second date: "Sushi?" Who cares if I've never eaten it; I'll try it for you. Third date: meeting your friends. I'm not too social, but for you I'll try to be. "This isn't serious," I say. "This isn't serious," we say. One, two, three, four, five years pass. "This still isn't serious." Who wants to be serious? Still don't know what to expect, but why obsess over expectations? I will still try everything new for you. Because I love you. —Aleks Fedoriw

A Scarier Kind of Gravity
Monday, August 1

How to meet-cute: (1) Exploit Tinder to deal with your fidgety fingers. (2) Make plans to meet in Central Park, but don't send your location ("Let's play hide-and-seek: black dress"). (3) Withhold your outrage when he gives up and says to look for him instead. (4) Spin in frustrated circles until you spot him on top of a rock. (5) Instantly overcome your fear of heights to climb to him. (6) Over the next three hours, succumb to a much different, much scarier kind of gravity. (7) Delete Tinder. —Linh Nguyen

Knowing in My (Broken) Bones
Tuesday, August 9

I jumped off my surfboard and felt my ankle snap. Crumpling into the waves, I cried out. Andrew scooped me in his arms and carried me to shore as I tried not to cry. We had just moved to America from Canada and were homesick. The hospital was so expensive; at home, it's free. Andrew wheeled me through the halls in his wet suit, slipping, looking like Aquaman, refusing to leave my side. The nurses smiled and laughed. I lay back in the bed and knew in my bones that I would spend my life with this man. —Ivy Staker

"A Couple of What?"
Thursday, August 11

"If you cry when I die, I'm going to haunt you," Rick said. "You're going to have to haunt me," I replied. Months later, as I walked around the apartment we were supposed to share, I shouted, "Where are you, you bastard?" When Rick took his last breath, my heart crumpled. No romance between us. We barely hugged. "You're a lovely couple," people would say. "A couple of what?" we'd respond. We were best friends, often found sitting on the couch, laughing like idiots. "Rick, we're stupid," I'd say. He'd answer, "Yes, but we're happy." —Betty Adorno

Never Too Old for Butterflies
Tuesday, August 16

A man shows up at my nonprofit. He appears to be more interested in me than in his volunteer tasks. "I'm in a committed relationship," I tell him the third time he comes back. He asks, "Why aren't you happy?" Huh? I have a house, children, dog, and retirement account. "I'm fine," I reply. I'm almost 60, too old for these butterflies. Too old to remake my life. A close friend dies in a motorcycle accident. He always asked me why I put myself last. Was I happy? Six years with my new love and life, I've never been so happy. —Susan Murphy

I Don't Even Like Baby Ruths
Saturday, August 20 • Sunday, August 21

It was 1969 and we were 19-year-old camp counselors. He was Orthodox, innocent, working-class, Lower East Side. I was a Forest Hills hippie princess fallen upon hard times. As we waited with our fellow counselors for our evening assignments, he took a Baby Ruth out of his pocket, broke it neatly in half, and gave me one of the halves. He didn't ask if I wanted or even liked Baby Ruths (I don't); he just handed it to me without comment. It took eight years to convince him to marry me, but that was the moment I knew. —Judith Mermelstein

The Prairie Dog of My Dreams
Thursday, August 25

When I was young, my dreams often featured snippets of prairie dogs; they would appear intermittently, like commercial breaks. It was strange, but that's how my dreams played. In my 20s, I found myself talking until dawn with my roommate, Ken. One night, a silly question came up: "If you could be any animal, what would you be?" "A prairie dog," Ken said. After that conversation, the commercial breaks went dark. Thirty years later, I'm still married to the man (or prairie dog) of my dreams. —Ava Chinn

Storming into Kindergarten
Thursday, September 1

It was the first of many first days of school. I walked in little steps toward the classroom, my parents striding beside me. Eager to take kindergarten by storm, I reminded myself that I had to make friends. I sat down next to a girl who was as tiny as I was. With my favorite topic in mind, I said, "Do you know my granny Alba?" My potential new friend's eyes opened wide with curiosity. My parents laughed by the door. I guess when you love someone so immensely, you assume that the rest of the world does, too. —Maria Paula Serrano

Still in My Garden
Saturday, September 3 • Sunday, September 4

When we met in December, he told me he couldn't commit. In January, I told him I loved him. In March, he planted a sunflower in my New Orleans garden that dwarfed the other plants, stealing their sun. In July, I tore his eleven-footer down, struggling to sever its massive roots. Victorious, I posed for a picture with his sunflower's head. In September, he pulled up the picture over drinks. "That's your sunflower," I said. "I know," he said. I meant to free myself, my garden, of him, but he's still here on our one-year anniversary of not actually dating. —Marcelle Beaulieu

"Our Sleepy Golden Storm"
Monday, September 5

"Our Sleepy Golden Storm" is what my wife, Yiseon, calls him. The night he was born in Gimhae, South Korea, a typhoon blew in from the Sea of Japan. "Am I in labor?" Yiseon asked, hunched over a beanbag chair. "I can't tell." We left so late, flying down the rain-slicked neon boulevards to the clinic, that there wasn't time for an epidural, or any painkiller other than a midwife's massage. I had peppermint oil and blood on my hands when we first heard him cry. Outside, the storm stripped ginkgos bare, burying the sidewalks under damp gold leaves. —Joshua Cornwell

In Search of the Mute Button
Wednesday, September 7

My six-year-old grandson loved kindergarten: his creative teacher, the stream of new subjects, his lively classmates. Then—poof—he was at home, alone and unhappy until his school transitioned to online learning. My daughter FaceTimed me during his first Zoom class. "Mom, look at this," she said. "Total confusion. All noise. No one knows where the mute button is." She was watching chaos, but I saw love. My grandson intently scanned the picture squares on the computer screen. His face lit up and he shouted, "Gabe! Gabe! It's me, Alan!" —Pamela Smith

One Obvious Pro
Thursday, September 8

I grew up in a small town where same-sex relationships were considered abnormal and wrong. As I struggled with my sexuality, I began wondering, "Should I even try to have a romantic relationship?" When I left for college and fell for a girl, I was afraid to act on my feelings. My friend John came to my dorm to help me weigh the pros and cons of pursuing her. Later, I looked over the list by myself. John had written mostly jokes, except for one word: "Love?" —Gabriella Vacarelo

Why Marry? Oh, Right, That's Why
Wednesday, September 21

David was washing dishes after supper, his back to me, when we decided to get married. Throughout our 17 years together I had resisted the idea, not wanting to surrender authority to the church or to the state, both of which had opposed our marriage for centuries. Once more, I asked David why he wanted to wed. "Because it would bring me joy," he replied, and that settled that. —David Jenkins

It's OK to Feel This Way
Thursday, September 29

He got sad first. In a sea of anxiety, he lost his sense of self and self-worth. Sometimes, I cradled him in my arms and covered his face with kisses. Sometimes, I retreated into the calm of my own inner world. I got sad second. One morning, after arguing with my mother over coronavirus conspiracy theories, I couldn't get up. He coaxed me out of bed with promise of light refracting off waves and briny winds, a sanctuary from the wildfire smoke. Walking hand in hand, our toes in the cold Pacific, I cried, finally allowing myself to feel the world's weight. —Lilian Caylee Wang

Still Holding Me Tight
Wednesday, October 5

Conor and I had just decided to go steady when his Canadian visa expired. He wanted me to return to Ireland with him. I didn't want him to be my only lifeline in an unfamiliar country. "Let's go be starving artists in Berlin instead," I said, half-joking. Berlin was new to both of us. After moving, we didn't have much. We shared a small bed and a single pillow, but I was happy because he held me tight as we slept every night. Years later, on our queen bed with an excess of pillows, he still holds me like I would fall off if he didn't. —Sandy Yu

A Lifetime of Bliss
Tuesday, October 11

After a wedding in which our son was the best man, my wife and I were on the subway at midnight. A young man got on, continuing a conversation with a couple on the platform. He shouted, "Propose to her! Now! If you don't, someone else will." After the doors closed, he said to me, loudly, "He should propose right?" After I agreed, he said, "See, even the old guy agrees with me!" Later, he added, "I hope I didn't embarrass you. But I want them to have what you have: a lifetime of bliss." How did he know? —Dan Brody

Daily Delights
Thursday, October 20

Hot chocolate with an orange peel. A pink succulent in a ceramic pot. A late-night Target run for yellow Gatorade. Simon is a master of the small gesture. From my parents, I carried the assumption that only the grand gesture is proof of love. Since meeting Simon, I have come to value the minor favor, the daily smile, a murmured "Don't go" in the morning, a lesson in making cappuccino, the last slice of pear. —Mariah Heinzerling

For Once, I Wanted Less
Thursday, October 27

Through much of college I avoided romance because I wanted more: more knowledge, more goals, always striving. Then I fell for a close friend. The first morning I woke up to him—gentle arms, even breathing in the gray dawn—was the first time I wanted less. Less work. Less time committed to calendars. Nothing more than this small, simple present lasting. —Liana Wang

That Big Gorgeous Life
Friday, November 25

After the breakup, we spent every Thanksgiving, birthday, and Christmas together. Close enough to touch, legs inches apart. We were still dying of AIDS in the '90s, but I always thought, no, not Michael. When he died, I wondered who would love Black gay me like that ever again. It's taken me 20 years to see what he saw in me. That big gorgeous life was too beautiful to be in ruins. Damn it, Michael. And yet I can still hear you saying, "Get off the cross, Mary. Somebody else needs the wood." Just as close as two legs almost touching. —Wesley Rowell

Passing the Message On
Thursday, December 1

As I waited for my friend to pay the bill, an elderly gentleman said, "Excuse me. I want you to know that you make a lovely couple. My wife recently passed. Someone said this to us when we were dating. I'm passing it on to you." We weren't dating. But just 30 minutes earlier, my friend had suggested we consider doing so. I was unsure, fearful of losing the friendship. I am forever grateful to that beautiful man who touched my heart that day. My friend, who became my husband, recently died. I am looking to pass the message on. —Kathy Caruso

Breaking Up in a Small Town
Thursday, December 8

Breaking up in a small mountain town is hard. I still crane my neck after every white truck, searching the bed for your scratched black toolbox and the ghosts of us intertwined there, sleeping under younger stars. One day we may have children, but not together. And those children—mine, yours, but not ours—may grow up in the valley where we fell in love. They may even ski after school together. I'll smile at your new truck across the ski hill parking lot. Your long auburn hair will be shorter and grayer, but you'll still wear a mustache, and you'll smile back. —Michelle DeLong