EVERY MORNING SINCE THEY MET, Vanessa’s asked him for eggs. Usually scrambled, occasionally sunny-side up. He had never made eggs before. She showed him where they were in the fridge, guiding his hand to the cardboard carton. He held one in his palm. He liked how the shell felt smooth on his fingertips, surprised himself with how little pressure it took to crack. He held it over a bowl, the jagged gash dripping. After it drain...

BUSTLING, ALWAYS BUSTLING. The candy shop a few blocks from Francesca’s apartment on Calle Mayor was always filled with people—locals, tourists, taste testers, and sweets enthusiasts alike. Everyone wanted a taste of Madrid’s famous chocolate. All so different, but all converged on a single shop. 

Francesca loved her job at the shop. Every day new people to meet, all with new orders and new tastes, families, stories. Her favori...

As I grew older and relearned how to eat, I fell in love with a number of men and women who were always so thin I felt they could replace me as Annie did.

“Tell me again why we are up here,” Barbara said. “To scatter Harold’s remains,” I replied.

Day after day, Émilien sat in this same worn chair that faced a window overlooking the streets of Paris. From a little after three in the morning until seven he waited for the rest of the city to sleep.

We cannot attack a problem rooted deep in the foundation of society without first acknowledging just how deeply the problem runs. It can be innate, as prejudice slips into conversations unless we work to maintain an open and educated mind.