These are some vignettes I have that I presently haven't been able to work into any other larger pieces but that I kind of like:

On 10th and Arch Street’s in Philadelphia, there’s a Chinese restaurant. It’s on the corner, with a fish tank in the entryway and a bright neon sign marking the door on a block full of doorways marked by bright neon signs. I saw my first real love for the last time here. We met one another after the fact- twice, I believe, maybe three times- but this was the last time I saw her. It was late, some time well after two, and she sat across from me bleary eyed and with her chestnut hair pulled back in a pony tail. We talked about various things, although I don’t remember most of them. They were probably the sort of things that people who are in love but not really in love talk about: rememberings and promises of meetings in the future that we both knew most likely would never happen. At some point, she talked about our first summer together, the sweaty nights we spent at her beach house, and the Phillies game I took her to. And then she talked about the ballet, and how this place reminded her of dancing in her youth for some reason. I started to cry, then. I remember looking across at her, thinking here she is. The most beautiful woman I know. Bloodshot and haggard, passionate about dancing and marine biology and lo mein. I knew then that I would always love her, though I eventually learned differently, and for the moment, I thought it might be possible to never lose her. Somewhere in me, though, I think I knew that this was the end, or at least the ending I would want. She put her hands on the table, took mine, and looked at me sleepily. “I do love you,” she said. “It hurts and it’s hard, but I do still love you, and some times it surprises me how much. I don’t think I could ever not love you.” In my stories, it all ends there. I wish it ended there. Instead, our waitress brought our food. Apparently, the lo mein is the best in the city. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never ordered it. But she did, and the night continued, and we drove home. I dropped her off. We kissed, passionately, messily. She walked away, both of us crying. I never saw her again.

******

He knew he loved her on a brisk night the first week of April. He’d stayed late to grade papers, and got in an argument with his wife about their upcoming trip to the Poconos. She’d told him he was cowardly and beholden to his work. After the call, he walked through campus and sat in a dark courtyard, beneath a blossoming cherry tree. Thanks to the florescent lights of a nearby dorm, the tree was visible as a pink silhouette against the darkness. He sat for a long time and thought.

Shortly before leaving, he saw her walking towards him, talking and laughing with a friend. She wore gym shorts and a hooded sweatshirt. She saw him beneath the tree, smiled, and knew instantly that he was upset. She stopped, bent down and put her hand on his neck. She kissed his cheek: quickly, gently, and dryly in the cold. “Cheer up,” she said.

He did.