Outside the Harvard Bookstore we prepared to part, making the non-committal noises of people who are never going to see each other again. Misery mixed in with relief. Within a few minutes this poetic, literary woman was going to vanish into the bright lights of the bookstore. The kind of woman I’d been dreaming about my whole life. But that’s what it was: a dream.
Before she left, she opened her handbag and took out a small, plain looking pamphlet with a blue cover.
“Hey,” she said. “I almost forgot. I brought this for you. Have you read it? This one is pretty good. You can borrow it.”
I thanked her for the pamphlet, and read it on the train home. It was a magazine I’d never heard of before, with a single story in it. Something about a man whose job it is to imagine worst case scenarios. The story was so ingenious it made me laugh.
I had borrowed the pamphlet from her, so I had to return it. We met again, an easier meeting this time. The months passed, and we walked all over town, talking and talking. The heat dissipated, gave way to the crisp air of Fall, and we were still at it. Every month the small pamphlet with its single story arrived. She took them out of her handbag with a solemn air, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. I carried them around, creased and crumpled, easily hidden, like the emotions that flowed between the two of us.
Read the full story here and tell us: has literature ever helped you find love?