Subject: Requited Love
The "sipid" little story of "requited" love appeared in The New Yorker, the 25 July 1994 issue. The title and author are "How I Met my Wife" by Jack Winter.

It had been a rough day, so when I walked into the party I was
very chalant, despite my efforts to appear gruntled and
consolate.
I was furling my wieldy umbrella for the coat check when I saw
her standing alone in a corner. She was a descript person, a
woman in a state of total array. Her hair was kempt, her clothing
shevelled, and she moved in a gainly way.
I wanted desperately to meet her, but I knew I'd have to make
bones about it since I was travelling cognito. Beknownst to me,
the hostess, whom I could see both hide and hair of, was very
proper, so it would be skin off my nose if anything bad happened.
And even though I had only swerving loyalty to her, my manners
couldn't be peccable. Only toward and heard-of behavior would
do.
Fortunately, the embarrassment that my maculate appearance might
cause was evitable. There were two ways about it, but the
chances that someone as flappable as I would be ept enough to
become persona grata or a sung hero were slim. I was, after all,
something to sneeze at, someone you could easily hold a candle
to, someone who usually aroused bridled passion.
So I decided not to risk it. But then, all at once, for some
apparent reason, she looked in my direction and smiled in a way
that I could make heads or tails of.
I was plussed. It was concerting to see that she was
communicado, and it nerved me that she was interested in a pareil
like me, sight seen. Normally, I had a domitable spirit, but,
being corrigible, I felt capacitated--as if this were something I
was great shakes at-- and forgot that I had succeeded in
situations like this only a told number of times. So, after a
terminable delay, I acted with mitigated gall and made my way
through the ruly crowd with strong givings.
Nevertheless, since this was all new hat to me and I had no time
to prepare a promptu speech, I was petuous. Wanting to make only
called-for remarks, I started talking about the hors d'oeuvres,
trying to abuse her of the notion that I was sipid, and perhaps
even bunk a few myths about myself.
She responded well, and I was mayed that she considered me a
savory character who was up to some good. She told me who she
was. "What a perfect nomer," I said, advertently.
The conversation become more and more choate, and we spoke at
length to much avail. But I was defatigable, so I had to leave
at a godly hour. I asked if she wanted to come with me.
To my delight, she was committal. We left the party together and
have been together ever since. I have given her my love, and she
has requited it.