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Meera was recalling the tragedy of her first marriage. Married off to an Indian doctor in 1959, she had moved to London only to discover that her new husband, Ravi, already had a wife in the city.
—From "The True Margaret," a short story by Karan Mahajan, The New Yorker (August 14, 2023), pp. 52-57.
I waited for the first few glasses of prosecco before lunch to go to my head, sampled the various appetizers. Then I liked to join the other adults out on the patio for a little fresh air, to smoke a cigarette and comment on the soccer game the kids played without interruption in the yard.
—From "P's Parties," a short story by Jhumpa Lahiri, translated from the Italian by Todd Portnowitz in collaboration with the author, The New Yorker (July 10 & 17, 2023), pp. 44-55.
His wife wanted to go with him, but her mother was still dying, really taking her time with it, as if it were something to savor.
—From "The End Is Only a Beginning," a short story by T. Coraghessan Boyle, The New Yorker (August 21, 2023).
I asked him about food, of course, but then I quickly jumped to questions of ambition, of jealousy and envy. Those were the kinds of things that were on my mind at the time. I was seeing too many people around me sign book deals and make connections while I was stuck cataloguing everyone else's successes in hundred-words-or-less reviews for our culture pages. That was my story back then: twenty-four years old and already bitter.
—From "Colorín Colorado," a short story by Camille Bordas (July 10 & 17, 2023), pp. 57-67.
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