My husband and I don’t text, we don’t talk, we don’t live together, I don’t know where he lives (I have my guesses), and we’ve never been more in modern love.
The vows wrote themselves, pouring from my ballpoint pen like milk being poured from a gallon of milk.
At the top of Machu Picchu, as the woman I would one day call my wife vomited up the engagement ring I’d hidden in her Nalgene, I caught a glimpse of God’s plan.
I asked Sally to watch “When Harry Met Sally” with me on our third date. My name isn’t Harry—it’s Henry—but it would have been very cool if it were Harry.
It felt right when I swiped right, but when he left I wished that I had swiped in the other direction (left).
The charcuterie board was covered with meats, cheeses, and a dog-eared letter from my late great-grandfather.
First, he stole my identity. Then he stole my heart.
In this “Modern Love” essay, I will argue that, although my ex cheated on me with my best friend, I share blame for the demise of our relationship, insofar as I could not successfully articulate my emotional wants, needs, and feelings in a concise, productive way during the relationship.
When I met Sally, I asked if she’d seen “When Harry Met Sally.” She had. I hadn’t. My name is Brian.
“What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me,” Haddaway sang over the hospital loudspeakers as a baby named Haddaway hurt me during a scheduled C-section.
I’m Christian. My husband is Jewish. We’re getting a Buddhist divorce.
Of all the Etsy shops in all the towns in all the world, she bought used baby shoes from mine.
I called No. 54 at the D.M.V. where I work. The next day, No. 54 called my number.
Men always ask me to watch “When Harry Met Sally” because my name is Sally, but they’re never named Harry, so they’re not as clever as they think.
Everything on my wedding day was picture perfect—it’s how I knew that something was horribly wrong.
Love is like a box of chocolates, in that I like both of those things.
In rural Alabama, where coyotes holler and jug bands play, “I love you”s are rarer than routine medical care.
The dick pic looked familiar, as if I’d seen it in a dream; then it dawned on me that it was a picture of my own penis.
When you realize you don’t want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible, Sally.
I didn’t know love until I gave birth and fell in modern love with the obstetrician. ♦
