Summer Shorts: More Flash Nonfiction!
Enjoy these four vignettes of love, heartbreak and brief encounters.
So far, we’ve shared two previous posts that featured concise pieces from our first (mini) flash nonfiction essay contest. If you haven’t read the winning submission by Rodrigo Dos Reis, here’s the link. Plus, here are six other standouts we don’t want you to miss. Now to round things out, here’s the third (and final) collection of shorts for you to enjoy. Thanks!
“What You Should Know About Patrick”
by Anthony DiPietro
We met in a bar line at Pride in my city, Providence; he traveled from Massachusetts’s North Shore. We were 32. He was ginger with vaguely Kennedy features, a cute smile. Master’s degree. Seemed sane.
Next day, Sunday, I drove 70 minutes to the Diamond District condo where he rented a room. The neighborhood where “Lynn, Lynn, city of sin” meets Swampscott meets the Atlantic. Right there is Governor Charlie Baker’s mansion. Patrick’s place was closer to the beach.
It’s the type of place you could walk to lunch on a posh seafood restaurant patio. You could watch sailboats. You could walk along the beach boardwalk to the “island” of Nahant. That’s what we did on our first date. You could also ride a bike to Marblehead, like we did on the 4th.
Instant boyfriends, we alternated visiting each other on weekends, so one of us always felt like we were on vacation. I preferred going up to see him. I hated leaving there, although early on, I felt I was floating. I still remember songs that played on the drive home from our first date. My very senses were heightened.
We loved to wake up, drive a mile to this great Italian bakery we knew, get indecisive about what to order, and buy one of everything—then savor pastry and coffee on the rooftop deck a block from the ocean.
His place was magic, but it’s where I learned that any couple with great chemistry can be happy together for six months. That’s when, as I was getting in my car to drive home, Patrick broke up with me for the first time.
I should have sped home and never looked back.
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“When Words Seem Unnecessary”
by Michael Horvich
In Puerto Vallarta, my husband Gregory and I escape the afternoon heat by stepping into a shaded café beside the Rio Cuale. The open-air café is filled with plants, piñatas, white tablecloths, and the sounds of a man playing piano melodies that drift between classical music, Spanish songs, and tunes from the 1950s.
We order drinks — sangria for me and fizzy water for Gregory — and sit quietly overlooking the river as tourists, vendors, dogs, and buses pass by. A man selling coconut milk calls “Tuba, tuba!” while another sells fruit nearby. The ordinary beauty of the afternoon slowly settles over us.
As the pianist plays, I realize how deeply content we both feel simply sitting together in silence. Gregory, living with Alzheimer’s disease, has recently begun struggling to find words. Yet in this moment, words feel unnecessary. Our quiet companionship expresses everything: love, comfort, joy, and understanding.
I’m moved to tears, recognizing that the peaceful afternoon cannot last forever. Alzheimer’s will continue to take more language and memory from Gregory, increasing the silence in our lives. But I also understand that our love exists beyond speech. Today, just being together is enough.
Later, we walk along the river past children watching cartoons. Now that Gregory has since died, I reflect on memories like this one, which remain. Though Gregory is gone physically, the memory of our shared happiness in Mexico still brings me peace.
The part of a marriage ceremony that says, “Until death do you part” is not true. Love continues, only differently. Gregory has been dead now for ten years, but I am, still counting, celebrating our 50th anniversary this year.
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“Follow the Giants”
by Brad Griffith
I was with a friend in Sitges, a place I’d never visited before. As I sat in a cafe, listening to Americans talk about Palm Springs real estate (not why I was on vacation in Europe), I returned to my host, who was having coffee with a fascinating Catalan friend of hers. They insisted I must see the Dalí museum in Figuères, an hour train ride on the other side of Barcelona. I told Jordi—a friend of a friend I’d never met who was meeting me for coffee after I visited Sagrada Familia the next day—my plan to train back and forth.
“Why don’t you just come and stay with me?” he offered.
The next day, I wore linen with long sleeves and long pants, thinking I was visiting a cathedral and should be respectful. I was the only person not wearing shorts and was sweating through my clothes. Jordi picked me up on the back of his scooter and drove me all around Barcelona, like in a rom-com: up to hike in the hills; to the museum; traversing the diagonal street crossing the city to the pool built for the ’92 Olympics with a spectacular view. Between the Gothic area and La Rambla, I asked when the beautiful globe lights went on. They lit in that moment.
Strolling La Rambla, I saw movement in a courtyard and asked, “Is that Harry Potter?” He exclaimed, “Los gigantes!” These puppet-like effigies towered two stories tall and only came out for the fall harvest festival. He had operated one in his village when he was a teenager. We had amazing croquetas, we drove by the Gaudi buildings at night. The next morning, I took the train on to Figuères, knowing that Barcelona is magic.
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“My ‘Comet’ Boyfriend in Mexico City”
by James Brooks
On the second morning in Mexico City, he texted me on Scruff: “Send me a pic of you having coffee sr.”
On our first date at a Roma District cafe, Diego and I ordered quesadillas de hongos con epazote (sauteed mushrooms in blue corn tortillas). Our hands accidentally touched while reaching for them, but we didn’t pull away out of politeness. After dinner, we walked down the Orizaba toward the Plaza Rio de Janeiro, where I put my arm around his waist as we walked past the replica of Michelangelo’s “David.”
Suddenly, Diego said he had to go back to his apartment. Without me.
He didn’t like me!? I knew it.
But the next morning, he texted: “Good morning hermoso!” I felt unburdened from my persistent assumption that no man as lovely as Diego could ever want me.
“Why don’t you invite him over?” my husband asked.
When Diego arrived at the hotel, he explained that he couldn’t have uninvited guests at his apartment anymore. “Too many parties.” We had sex in the shower.
I discovered an achy love for Diego that made me love Mexico City even more. That crush transmogrified our Sunday jog together down Paseo de la Reforma when it was closed to vehicular traffic. There was no way the whole city was gloriously on bicycles or in baby strollers, but it seemed like it.
We ran to the La Lagunilla flea market, which featured acres of grilling al pastor, longaniza, and suadero tacos, sending up a delicious-smelling smoke. He bought me a hand-crafted tamarind Jarrito, a soda with lime and salt on the rim, that was tangier than I expected.
The day I left, I texted Diego: “It’s painful to leave you.”
He replied: “It felt like something good was starting guapito.”
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Jerry, Four beautiful love stories. So pleased that Gregory and my story was included. Fondly, Michael
Thanks so much for including me. Wonderful to read all these.