One day she'll look up from the pictures, curious eyes to my nostalgic smile, and she'll ask me, "Do you remember the moment when you fell in love?"
And I'll begin, "Well,
"I think we were talking, as we so often did. We liked sunsets and poetry. I asked him how he took his tea, and he bewildered me with science, and together we took turns defining magic."
She'll grow excited, and I'll try to start over. "No, I think I'm wrong. You know, I grew accustomed to looking at him when he couldn't see. His hands in his hair... his feet resting on things they shouldn't... and that one particular shirt that drove me crazy." At this she'll raise her eyebrow, but I will change my mind again before she can ask for more. "But that can't be right, either. It must have been lying on the hammocks, or that time he played guitar."
My mind will be racing, trying to pinpoint the exact moment I fell for him. "Of course it must have been the day I realized I didn't care about his flaws. But then, I expect, it was never so clear as that time he opened the door."
She'll suddenly smile as if she knows something I don't, and then she'll say my name. And she'll ask, "Do you believe it's possible to fall in love every day?"
