It was hard for me to ask for a change, so I just went ahead. I never thought that we would hit it off. Many times, I tried to tell you the truth, but I was afraid that it would ruin everything.
Sweetheart, I don't exactly like salty coffee. But as it mattered so much to you, I've learnt to enjoy it. Having you with me was my greatest happiness. If I could live a second time, I hope we can be together again, even if it means that I have to drink salty coffee for the rest of my life.
他在一次晚会上遇见了她。她很迷人，有很多男孩子追求，而他却平凡无奇。晚会结束后，他请她出去喝咖啡，这让她很吃惊。出于礼貌，她去了。
他们坐在一家幽雅的咖啡店里。他紧张得说不出话来，而她也感到很拘束。突然，他叫来服务生，说道：“给我在咖啡里加点盐，好吗？”
她和服务生都看着他，他脸红了。盐端上来了，他往咖啡里放了一些，喝了起来。她好奇地问：“为什么在咖啡里放盐呢？”他解释说：“小时候，我住在海边，喜欢在那里玩耍海水是咸的，就像这±咸咖啡。每次喝咖啡时，我就想起了童年和家乡。我怀念这种味道，想念那里的父母亲。”
她被深深地感动了。一个有思乡情结的男人一定很爱家，很关心家人。他一定是值得信赖的。
于是，她也谈起了她遥远的家乡，她的童年和家人。他们的爱情故事就这样à开了帷幕。
之后，他们常常约会。她发现他宽容、善良、热情而细心，完全符合她的标准。她想，若不是那±咸咖啡，她或许就错过了他。
最后，他们结婚了，幸福地生活在一起。每每给他冲咖啡时，她总会放些盐，因为他喜欢喝咸咖啡。
40年后，他去世了，留了一封信给她，信中的内容是这样的：
亲爱的，请谅我——有一个谎言，我隐瞒了你整整一生。还记得我们的第一次约会吗？我很紧张，想要糖，却说成了盐。
再改过来很难，我只好将错就错。我从未想过要喝咸咖啡。许多次，我都想告诉你真相，但又担心说出来一切会化为泡影。
亲爱的，我并不喜欢喝咸咖啡，但你很在乎这个，我已经学着接受它了。与你在一起就是我最大的幸福。倘若我能重生，我希望还能和你在一起，即使这意味着余生都要喝咸咖啡，我也在所不惜。
爱无处不在
How to Find True Love
佚名 / Anonymous
I began to learn about love in dancing school, at age 12. I remember thinking on the first day I was going to fall madly in love with one of the boys and spend the next years of my life kissing and waltzing.
During class, however, I sat among the girls, waiting for a boy to ask me to dance. To my complete shock, I was consistently one of the last to be asked. At first I thought the boys had made a terrible mistake. I was so funny and pretty, and I could beat everyone I knew at tennis and climb trees faster than a cat. Why didn't they dash toward me?
Yet class after class. I watched boys dressed in blue blazers and gray pants head toward girls in flowered shifts whose perfect ponytails swung back and forth like metronomes. They fell easily into step with one another in a way that was completely mysterious to me. I came to believe that love belonged only to those who glided, who never shimmied up trees or even really touched the ground.
By the time I was 13, I knew how to subtly tilt my head and make my tears fall back into my eyes, instead of down my cheeks, when no one asked me to dance. I also discovered the "powder room", which became my softly lit, reliable retreat. Whenever I started to cry, I'd excuse myself and run in there,
I finally stopped crying when I met Matt, who was quiet and hung out on the edges of the room. When we danced for the first time, he wouldn't even look me in the eyes. But he was cute, and he told great stories. We became good buddies, dancing every dance together until the end of school. I learned from him my most important early lesson about romance: that the potential for love exists in corners, in the most unlikely as well as the most obvious places.
For years my love life continued to be one long tragicomic novel. In college I fell in love with a tall English major who rode a motorcycle. He stood me up on our sixth date—an afternoon of sky diving. I jumped out of the plane alone and landed in a parking lot.
In my mid-20s I moved to New York City where love is as hard to find as a legal parking spot. My first Valentine's Day there, I went on a date to a crowded bar on the Upper West Side. Halfway through dinner, my date excused himself and never returned.
At the time, I lived with a beautiful roommate. Flowers piled up at our door like snowdrifts, and the light on the answering machine always blinked in a panicky way, overloaded with messages from her admirers. Limousines purred outside, with dates waiting for her behind tinted windows.
In my mind, love was something behind a tinted window, part apparition, part shadow, definitely unreachable. Whenever I spotted happy-looking couples, I'd wonder where they found love, and want to follow them home for the answer.
After a few years in the city I got my dream job—writing about weddings for a magazine called 7 Days. I had to find interesting engaged couples and write up their love stories. I got to ask total strangers the things I'd always wanted to know.
I found at least one sure answer to the question "How do you know it's love?" You know when the everyday things surrounding you—the leaves, the shade of light in the sky, a bowl of strawberries—suddenly shimmer with a kind of unreality.
You know when the tiny details about another person, ones that are insignificant to most people, seem fascinating and incredible to you. One groom told me he loved everything about his future wife, from her handwriting to the way she scratched on their apartment, door like a cat when she came home. One bride said she fell in love with her fiance because "one night，a moth was flying around a light bulb, and he caught it and let it out the window. I said, 'That's it. He's the guy. '"