Tiny Love Stories: ‘She Was Too Cool to Wear a Costume’

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Opposites, Trying to Attract

Thirteen years into our friendship, when we were finally both single, Angie and I met for a screening of “Harold and Maude” in San Francisco’s Dolores Park. I waited at her door wearing a faux-leather miniskirt, a midriff-bearing top and platform boots. She came out in a button-down shirt, a tie, dark jeans and men’s Italian loafers. Instantly, we knew that, in different ways, we had each dressed for a date. Two children later, we still differ in many things: how to load the dishwasher and enforce bedtimes, but also, most importantly, how to lure each other back in. — Elizabeth Stark

A Second Chance at Young Love

I imagine my mother’s engagement ring flashing in the lights of the Delta Upsilon parties she attended her senior year of college. Married right after graduation, my parents built a life together. While their 20-something friends spent nights gyrating to music in Manhattan clubs, my parents tried to find the perfect motion to rock me to sleep. A few decades later, I’m freshly graduated from college (sans engagement ring) and they’re finally beginning to “date” again. At night, I lock the door behind them when they leave. — Delaney Tarpey

Breaking Good

We met at a Halloween party as undergraduates in the United States. I was wearing a hazmat suit inspired by “Breaking Bad.” She was too cool to wear a costume. I asked where she was from, and she said Chennai, India, which is my hometown as well. After a bit of mutual temporizing, we started dating. Now, four years later, we’re back in Chennai and in love. We met halfway across the world by pure coincidence, and we lived 20 minutes from each other all along. P.S. Her parents don’t know about us yet. (Classic). Wish us luck! — Nikhil Venkatesa

I Love Him for Holding Her Hand

We ditched the college’s “family weekend” activities to explore the fall foliage in rural Vermont. Soon into our trip, we came upon a hit-and-run motorcycle accident that had left a couple lying in the middle of the highway, one with serious injuries. We raced to help. My daughter called 911, I directed traffic away from where they lay, and my husband held the frightened biker’s hand until paramedics arrived. My husband, born in Japan and not physically affectionate, rarely holds my hand for more than a minute. I love him for holding the hurt biker’s hand for nearly half an hour. — Susan Jessup

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