Four Short Crushes

This short story by Paul Simms appeared in the New Yorker about a month ago. But I've been thinking about it and rereading it ever since. And I laugh every time. This, to me, is the measure of a great story. A five-star story. It makes me happy for two reasons, 1. That guys actually think like this too, and 2. That I have a new author to aspire to emulate.

Following is a short clip, read the whole story here. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Just look at you, walking into this dreary bar and lighting the place up like the noonday sun at midnight, twirling a lock of your long auburn hair pensively as you search the room—for what?

For a soul mate, perhaps?

(I know, I know—I hate that phrase, too. Maybe that will end up being one of those things we both hate.) Maybe a few weeks from now, lying in your bed on a Sunday morning, I’ll ask you, “What’s your least favorite word or phrase?,” and you’ll say, “ ‘Soul mate,’ ” and I’ll laugh till you say, “What? Tell me!,” and I’ll tell you how I knew that from the moment I first laid eyes on you, and then we’ll have sex again.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. You haven’t even noticed me yet. That’s O.K. I can wait.