Kelly Stout in The New Yorker:
Some drafts of Valentine’s Day cards that perhaps I shouldn’t be sending in the first place:
To the man my roommate is dating:
Love lifts us up where we belong! For you, that’s in your own apartment at least a couple of nights a week.
To the receptionist at my gym:
You and the whole team at BodyBlast Fourteenth Street make me feel like my heart is about to explode. Hope to see more of you this winter than last! XOXO
To my landlord:
Roses are red, violets are blue, I’ve had a cat for three months, and his bowl is in plain view. Pursuant to the New York State Tenants’ Rights Guide, you can’t evict me.
To the cute undergraduate who sold me a used bike on Craigslist:
Although we only met briefly, I loved hearing about how you make your own kombucha, and how you had to get back to the short film you’re working on for your senior thesis. I’m not so much older than you that I couldn’t feel the spark. Besides, isn’t love supposed to be uncomfortable? P.S. Loving the bike.