Breaking Down The New York Times "Best Tiny Love Stories"

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My relationship with The New York Times has changed a lot over the years. Where they once used to publicly call me “a critic” due to my dissections of their insufferable marriage announcements, they can now call me a "reluctant subscriber” of their Digital and Sunday editions. Proud that I’ve sold out? No. But my senior quote was, “We can do a hell of a lot more damage in the system than outside of it,” so keep an eye out for the long play here.

Either way, no, this is not one of my marriage announcement breakdowns of old. Unfortunately, I’ve retired from such things due to the fact that I think I literally may have ruined someone’s wedding. I do not say that with pride as much as I do with an apologetic tone.

Instead, I’m pivoting. Not to a different newspaper or anything, but to Tiny Love Stories. Essentially, they’re 100-word meet-cutes that The New York Times publishes weekly. And as a promotion for their second season of Modern Love, they decided to put together a collection of their ten favorite Tiny Love Stories.

Here, my friends, is my breakdown of the best (worst?) four.

Strangers on a Train

We met on a train from Paris to Barcelona. Sitting next to one another, we argued over who could use the power outlet. “Désolé, je crois que c’est a moi.” (“Sorry, I think it’s mine.”) Instant crush. A perfect, flirtatious, six hours. The beginning of our love story? We agreed to meet back in Paris: On March 19, I’d wait for his train at the Gare de Lyon railway station. We didn’t know that coronavirus would confine us in different countries. Trusting in the power of the universe, we hadn’t exchanged mobile numbers. Sometimes, a romantic plan isn’t enough.

I’ve always said the best romances bloom from the situations where both parties are trying to plug their devices in to ignore the outside world.

Seriously, though, how smarmy can one submission be? Not only do we get mansplained French but the general overuse of French in general here just puts out, “Please please please ask me about when I lived in Paris” vibes. And yes, she pronounces it Pah-ree.

I’m not saying this never happened, but I’m also not saying that it happened. If you flirt with someone for six fucking hours on a train from Paris to Barcelona, you’re telling me you don’t exchange phone numbers? A phone doesn’t get whipped out to show an Instagram, only to have both parties follow each other? You don’t get a… name? You don’t stalk them the second you get off the train and learn everything about their lives? This is a modern world we live in. Grow up.

See, this is why I always say you need to just stay in Paris. You know, to get away from your parents. And I thought w— actually, I’ll spare you.

Our Love Tripod

On the eve of the new millennium, I fell in love with Andrew, a dashing English ad executive. Inconveniently, I didn’t fall out of love with Scott, an American architectural photographer and my longtime partner. Our dilemma resulted in an unexpected and enduring romance: a V-shaped love triangle sans vows and offspring. Born English, now a naturalized American, I am the hinge in our harmonious household of three: I sleep with both men, they each sleep only with me. We share everything else: home, finances, friends, vacations, life-threatening calamities. As Scott says, our tripod is more stable than a bipod.

Very torn here. On one hand, I get it — a “dashing English ad executive” and an “architectural photographer” put out major rom-com vibes and she simply wants both to love her so she has to choose. I don’t make the rules but those are simply descriptions that only fit characters in Nancy Meyer’s movies starring Hugh Grant.

On the other side, this story didn’t end how I wanted it to end at all. No, I do not care at all that our writer here is hoarding dudes. Get ‘em while you can, sister. Toss on that Sister Act 2 soundtrack and let your freak flag fly. Rather, I was hoping this would culminate with Dashing-English-Ad-Executive falling in love with American-Architectural-Photographer. Tell me that her being the crux of that blooming romance isn’t something you’d like to sign up for down the line. I’ll wait.

Editor’s Note: Given that the first story took place en route from Paris and the next involved what Craigslist would describe as an MMF Casual Encounter, I’m showing a lot of maturity by not making an Eiffel Tower quip here.

Hello, Old Friend

Grief was that relative I heard stories about. I knew her in the way I knew Uncle Gerald, someone I never met but learned so much about. Then my husband died, and there Grief was, shaking my hand. I offered her the guest bedroom, scrambling to make it comfortable, but not too comfortable because I didn’t want her to stay long. Instead of the guest bedroom, she marched right into my bedroom and dropped her heavy bags. Years later, she’s still with me, now an old friend, someone to sip martinis with and remember.

Fired: Dead Ex-Husband.

Wired: The New Martini-Sippin’ Girlfriend.

So you’re telling me these two never met before? And now the second her husband dies, she’s sipping martinis in bed and firing off cocky 100-word stories about it to The New York Times? This is disrespect on a level of disrespect I’ve never witnessed before.

Our mans is in Heaven looking down trying to figure out where it all went wrong. One second he’s alive wearing his robe while reading the morning paper, the next he’s checking in from Up Above and seeing missed opportunities galore in his old master bedroom.

Sometimes you just have to take the L and move on, Dead Ex-Husband. Time to hit the local watering hole in Heaven and find a new “old friend” of your own, heavy bags or not.

Netflix, Cake and SNL

For a decade, I’ve watched my former classmates settle into the conventional domestic pattern: husband, wife, baby, house. They look grown up now. They look like their parents. I, however, remain single at 34, pulling all-nighters and eating cake for dinner. I drive an hour for good ramen. I skip town for the weekend. I watch Netflix with impunity. No one is angry about the dishes. Marriage sent my classmates down a steadier path, one that rarely crosses my itinerant course. I do miss them. For me, saying, “Congratulations on your engagement,” is too often another way of saying, “Goodbye.”

Wow, this is truly epic.

Please read my next paragraph with the same cadence of this kid:

Cake for dinner? Bae. Ramen? Bae. Netflix? Bae.

Okay, okay, I’ll admit that this isn’t actually all that ridiculous. If there’s ever a time to be 34, single, and completely spiraling… it’s right now. Literally today. But at the same time, deliberately writing into The New York Times about it and legitimately sending a photo of the piece of cake you’re eating for dinner — puts out try-hard vibes.

Maybe reach out to your friends after they get engaged, though. You know, like RSVPing to their wedding and shit. Who knows, maybe you’ll lock down someone in the wedding party that’ll change your whole perspective on shit. Just make sure to get their number in case another worldwide global pandemic hits on your way to Barcelona.

Will deFries