As Scott says, our tripod is more stable than a bipod. We share everything else: home, finances, friends, vacations, life-threatening calamities. 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. Our dilemma resulted in an unexpected and enduring romance: a V-shaped love triangle sans vows and offspring. Inconveniently, I didn’t fall out of love with Scott, an American architectural photographer and my longtime partner. On the eve of the new millennium, I fell in love with Andrew, a dashing English ad executive. And I thought w- actually, I’ll spare you. See, this is why I always say you need to just stay in Paris. 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. I’m not saying this never happened, but I’m also not saying that it happened. 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. 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. Trusting in the power of the universe, we hadn’t exchanged mobile numbers. We didn’t know that coronavirus would confine us in different countries. 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. “Désolé, je crois que c’est a moi.” (“Sorry, I think it’s mine.”) Instant crush. Sitting next to one another, we argued over who could use the power outlet. We met on a train from Paris to Barcelona. Here, my friends, is my breakdown of the best (worst?) four. 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. Essentially, they’re 100-word meet-cutes that The New York Times publishes weekly. Not to a different newspaper or anything, but to Tiny Love Stories. I do not say that with pride as much as I do with an apologetic tone. Unfortunately, I’ve retired from such things due to the fact that I think I literally may have ruined someone’s wedding. 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.Įither way, no, this is not one of my marriage announcement breakdowns of old. 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. My relationship with The New York Times has changed a lot over the years.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |