Four Tiny Love Stories
100 words each on my various loves: Dressing Up As A Ghost, Watching Someone Eat A Pickled Egg, The Great Robert Caro, & Lost Baby Socks.
Happy February!
Four months ago, my pen pal and frequent co-writer Melanie Jennings challenged me to write one Tiny Love Story every 30 days. Each Tiny Love Story is 100 words or fewer. Composing them has been so much fun, but I haven’t shared any with readers until now. I hope you like them! If you don’t, well . . . life is full of disappointments, but at least these won’t take up too much of your time.
The People You Meet in New York City
The most annoying poet I ever met said, “Move to New York for the people.” No thanks. The people are everywhere. Then my husband got a job in Manhattan. His old friend and former bandmate called: “Dude, my mom lives there now.” The first day in our apartment, she brought us cookies. Back when my husband was a broke musician, she made him sandwiches at her kitchen counter. She still makes him sandwiches, only now on a blanket by the cherry trees. And of course, one for me, extra pickle. The poet was right. She’s the people to move for.
“Come Play With Us – Except You. You Stay Over There"
Melanie and I were in Vegas, a few days before Halloween, and dressed as the Grady Sisters: blue dresses, white socks, Mary Janes. In the casino, people called out, “Hey, girls! Where’s Danny?!” We kept a straight face . . . until one confused soul, who had definitely never seen the movie, could not contain his lust. He murmured, sensually: “Beautiful ladies.” We started laughing and couldn’t stop. How did he make sense of our matching outfits? Our identical hairstyle? We had no time to ask. We drifted on, past the slot machines, and into the Stephen King convention.
The Crush Broker
When I started reading The Power Broker, I assumed I would learn some things about the halls of power. E.G., that they are full of intrigue. I did not expect to learn that everyone is hot. 500 pages in, I ricochet between love for idealistic young Moses in his white linen suit, the former child-laborer turned Governor Al Smith, and of course the author, Robert Caro himself. Chatting on the sidewalk, I mention my Caro-crush to a friend. She saw him recently, standing in line at the pharmacy. “He’s still got it,” she says.
What Manhattan Tells Me
A baby starts her morning with two socks, but one wriggles free. On the sidewalk by the bookstore, the tiny sock smiles up at me. I smile back.
Everywhere I see signs of a cosmic conspiracy saying I belong. My tailor, eating pickled eggs in his shop window. The mysterious, recurring pile of nuts. My neighbor sharing the juiciest gossip you’ve never heard about who’s who in New York. Walking back from the grocery store, I bump into my husband by chance. I greet the local dogs by name.
The City has something to say, and it’s Welcome Home.
Wishing you all the good dark chocolate, a big fat book (I’ve heard the LBJ biographies are excellent), and the right people to share them with.
Xs and Os and firm handshakes for those who prefer them,
Liz
Love it! Your writing is so engaging!
So lovely. I fell in love with your loves.