I fall in love easily. I always have. I fall in love with people and their passion. I fall in love with ideas, particularly those that nudge my irreverence. I fall in love with fabric, rich in texture and in weave. I fall in love with art that brings me crashing to my knees because it awakens a mysterious, unutterable desire. I fall in love with music, especially when its erotic rhythms hail from the Portuguese. I fall in love with foreigners, whose languages slide off their tongues with effortless romanticism. I fall in love with a certain summer light that descends right before dusk and paints the landscape with surreal, almost edible color. I fall in love with smells, especially exotic floral blends that fade throughout the day and meld with the scent of my skin. I fall in love with the song of the lark and the echo of a flute played deep in a canyon. I fall for the softness of the skin on the nape of my son’s neck and the luscious scent of my daughter’s hair. And at times in my life, I have fallen in love with the manner in which people have fallen for me. Unwittingly, I cannot help myself.