INTRODUCTION

All you need is love.
Love is a many splendored thing.
Love makes the world go ’round.

ALL RIGHT. So all of those statements are true. And yet none even begin to describe what love truly is. Love is simply one of those words that means entirely different things to different people. I’ve known this for years. Anyone who listens to rock ’n’ roll as obsessively as I do understands that love is a contradiction all by itself—elusive, fleeting, transitory, all-consuming, endless, explosive, unavoidable, and necessary.

Still, when I put out a call for submissions with the vague theme of “Amour,” I found myself surprised by the range of love affairs that writers conjured. From Tsaurah Litzky’s “Sharing the Love,” which deals with a risqué three-way between two committed partners and their longtime friend to Jolene Hui’s “Parker’s Mustache,” which focuses on a love of facial hair (facial hair belonging to the narrator’s brother-in-law), these creative authors showed me the love in completely unexpected ways.

Love is longing in Saskia Walker’s “Arran’s Lure”: “‘Face it, girl, you’ve got it bad,’” she murmured…. And the worst of it was that it hurt. Hurt bad. Being in love was a screwed-up painful thing, if you were apart from the one you loved.”

Love is lust in Radclyffe’s “All about Us”: “When I skimmed her nipples, already puckered and hard, she moaned and jacked me faster.

“ ‘You don’t want to do that so hard, baby,’ I warned breathlessly. ‘Not unless you want me to come in my pants right now.’”

Love is blind, blind enough to make Cleveland seem like Paris, as in “Le Petit Déjeuner” by Jeremy Edwards: “When no one is looking, we refer to the immediate neighborhood as the arrondissement. The bookshelves are sprinkled with Balzac and Asterix. Unassuming Rhône wines haunt the kitchen counter, echoing the mood of the lazy still life that freshens the living room with flowers and peaches.”

These stories approach love from all angles. The downside. The upside. The wanting so bad you can’t sleep. Which is when A Is for Amour comes in handy. Flick on your bedside lamp. Crack the spine. And get ready to fall in love.

 

XXX,
Alison Tyler