Affairs at the Jupiter hotel

round your wrist bore a number your name and D.O.B. two weeks after two stone less the day you came home it slipped off no need to snip . . .Read the whole article at The Newyorker

I remember he was bent down Like a whirlpool I was yelling at him He looked scared and backed away Another time, I squinted my eyes to see And he said I looked ugly The funny part was when My sister asked me where he went to And I just . . .Read the whole article at The [...]

Lately—and who knows why only lately—several of my friends, some male, some female, all of them currently in crawl position in the dating trenches, and all of them writers, have suffered cruelly from what I’ll…Read the whole article at The Newyorker

They were in the scullery talking. The meadow had to be sold to pay their riotous expenses; then the woods by the river, with its tangled banks and snags elbowing out of the water, had to go; and then the summer house where they talked— all that was left . . .Read the whole article at The Newyorker

Join us tonight at 8! He’s dashing. He’s single. He’s obsessed with love. No, ladies, it’s not Pilot Jake. It’s John Bowe, the editor of “Us: Americans Talk About Love,” a collection of first-person essays…Read the whole article at The Newyorker