Little Love Stories: "All Women Are Mediums"

Modern love in miniature, with reader-submitted stories no longer than 100 words.

Cashier Connection

I stop at the neon-lit drive-in after midnight. The young cashier inside the fluorescent box calls me "honey", as if we were not the same age. "Hospital?" she asks. I blink – convinced that all women are psychics. "Your bracelet!" she said, pointing to my wrist. “Three hours to see someone for my stomach,” I tell him. (With endometriosis and ovarian cysts, I feel like it's more of a "wound" than a uterus.) We chat and find out we both have health care insufficient, no attending physician. "I'm tired," I tell him. His dark eyes meet mine. "Girl," she said, "me too." — Britt Gillman

ImageThat night, the food looked like love.

The gift of loving parents

Balanced on a wobbly chair, I apply white paint to the ceiling of my parents' bathroom. When I was younger, feeling guilty for being the reason they left Haiti, I was obsessed with accolades. I thought my accolades would reward my parents for their sacrifices: leaving home, learning a new language, and delaying retirement. Now I realize that having loving parents is a gift that cannot be repaid. I focus on helping and loving them in small ways, like stretching to paint their ceiling. — Sébastien Byron

ImageMe, Manmi and Grandpa enjoying each other's company.

Nice teeth and pretty nails

How did you know it was him, Mom? "He had nice teeth and nice fingernails." That's it? Teeth and nails? “He came from good people. Poor, but proud. Very clean." There must be more! "We just wanted the same things: family, home, work." My parents, both from Thessaloniki, Greece, were months away from their 57th birthday when Mum sneaked into the Covid wing. Dad was tugging at the tubes, the sheets. My sisters and I watched from an iPad while Mum took Dad's hand. 'I'm here, I'm here,' says- her. Dad calmly relaxed to his last breaths. " aria-label="media" role="group" >ImagePhotos of my parents' engagement, 1964, Thessaloniki, Greece.My chosen name

At 8 years old, I came up with the name I wish I had been given in a romance novel: Charlotte, Charli for short, bartender and rebel. Growing up homeless, in psychiatric wards, a teenage sex worker, I held my n...