Tiny Love Stories: ‘We Kissed With the Sink Running’

“There’s a nest under there!” my older son announced. Sure enough, on a sideways ladder under our deck was a perfect bird’s nest. We watched as a pair of robins darted in and out, finishing their creation. Lockdown days were long as I mothered two young boys while grieving the unexpected loss of my own mother. Any diversion was welcome. Soon enough, an impeccable blue egg appeared. The next day, another — and another, until four tiny eggs lay in wait. When the first egg hatched, I stood with my sons, missing my mother, feeling my heart crack open too. — Stephanie Vance

He is lying on my chest, our breaths synchronized as we ride a London taxi to my home. I kiss his forehead. It’s not working between us. We’ll try to be friends. He stretches to reach my lips and we kiss. I stroke his hair with tenderness, knowing that it might be the final time. We are taught that love must be forever — that a relationship loses its significance if it doesn’t last. Yet, I love him because I loved him. — Virginia Ivaldi

We had been friends for a year when she sent me the text: “I’m attracted to you.” I was stunned into a newfound curiosity and confusion. I had never been with a woman before. Three weeks after the text, we went to a D.J. set — as friends. She asked if I wanted to go to the bathroom. We took turns peeing and then went to the sink. I gathered her hands in mine and lathered them, our skin making soapsuds and new charge of electricity. We kissed with the sink running, hands interlocked, a friendship spilling at our feet. — Sarah Diedrick

Shark, our 5-year-old carnival fish, swims in his tank on our crowded kitchen counter. Orange and shiny like iridescent glass, he dives into his gravel when he is bored. Each morning, I check that he is still alive and offer him a few lines of Shakespeare. Shark opens and closes his mouth, seemingly attentive and patient, perhaps because his foul-smelling fish food flakes follow the recitation. Folly to love a fish. Or anyone who might leave us. But oh, what a gift. — Ann V. Klotz

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