THENEWYORKER,NOVEMBER23, 2020 27
SHOUTS & MURMURS
LUCI GUTIÉRREZ
Modern Love is a weekly column, a book, a
podcast—and now, in its 16th year, a televi-
sion show—about relationships, feelings, be-
trayals and revelations.
—The Times.
My husband and I don’t text, we don’t
talk, we don’t live together, I don’t
know where he lives (I have my
guesses), and we’ve never been more
in modern love.
The vows wrote themselves, pouring
from my ballpoint pen like milk being
poured from a gallon of milk.
At the top of Machu Picchu, as the
woman I would one day call my wife
vomited up the engagement ring I’d
hidden in her Nalgene, I caught a
glimpse of God’s plan.
I asked Sally to watch “When Harry Met
Sally” with me on our third date. My
name isn’t Harry—it’s Henry—but it
would have been very cool if it were Harry.
It felt right when I swiped right, but
when he left I wished that I had swiped
in the other direction (left).
The charcuterie board was covered with
meats, cheeses, and a dog-eared letter
from my late great-grandfather.
First, he stole my identity. Then he
stole my heart.
In this “Modern Love” essay, I will
argue that, although my ex cheated on
me with my best friend, I share blame
for the demise of our relationship, in-
sofar as I could not successfully artic-
ulate my emotional wants, needs, and
feelings in a concise, productive way
during the relationship.
When I met Sally, I asked if she’d seen
“When Harry Met Sally.” She had. I
hadn’t. My name is Brian.
“What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me,”
Haddaway sang over the hospital
loudspeakers as a baby named Hadd-
away hurt me during a scheduled
C-section.
I’m Christian. My husband is Jewish.
We’re getting a Buddhist divorce.
Of all the Etsy shops in all the towns
in all the world, she bought used baby
shoes from mine.
I called No. 54 at the D.M.V. where
I work. The next day, No. 54 called
my number.
Men always ask me to watch “When
Harry Met Sally” because my name is
Sally, but they’re never named Harry,
so they’re not as clever as they think.
Everything on my wedding day was
picture perfect—it’s how I knew that
something was horribly wrong.
Love is like a box of chocolates, in that
I like both of those things.
In rural Alabama, where coyotes hol-
ler and jug bands play, “I love you”s are
rarer than routine medical care.
The dick pic looked familiar, as if I’d
seen it in a dream; then it dawned on
me that it was a picture of my own
penis.
When you realize you don’t want to
spend the rest of your life with some-
body, you want the rest of your life to
start as soon as possible, Sally.
I didn’t know love until I gave birth
and fell in modern love with the
obstetrician.
FIRST LINES OF REJECTED
“MODERN LOVE” ESSAYS
BY ZACHZIMMERMAN
