Romance is not very romantic: in literature it usually refers to stories excitingly exaggerated or highly imaginary; in music it usually means short, simple melodies of tender character; and in life it usually equals a forty-year-old spinster awaiting her prince in shining – by now, rusted – armor. Yet, where would we be without it?

Romance is like the dash of salt in a dish, like the tinge of blush in a cheek – the difference between tastelessness and delicacy, the fine line separating boredom and excitement.

Romance and I

I walk barefoot, down a path dripping with cynicism. Acid tears fall from my eyes; steely sirens pierce my ears. There is an iron rosebush on the side of the path. I reach to touch it. Prickly thorns tear into my skin; black rose petals lie shriveled on the ground.

I roam the streets by night, looking in the shadows for what I do not know. I lie in bed by day, staring up at the ceiling of my dreams. I walk with no one holding my hand; I lie with no one breaking my heart.

One day, as I ride the subway, going through the daily routine – looking at the black-and-white graffiti flashing by like the years of my life, listening to the trains grumbling like the mood of my heart – I happen to glance up – and there she is, staring right at me, a mother-of-pearl smile on her lips. She just keeps on staring, keeps on smiling. I cannot turn away. I am transfixed.

…She takes me to a place I’ve never known, a place where dreamers are made and dreams are made of. We walk hand in hand on a rainbow bridge over crystal-clear streams. I reach out to pick a yellow dandelion from the millions growing by the brook. I tuck it behind her ear. She looks in my eyes and kisses my cheek.

We lie on the green velvet grass looking up to the blue silk sky scattered with white cashmere clouds. I follow her finger, drawing pictures in the firmaments above. She takes my hand, uncurls my finger, and draws an angel with it in the heavens…

Someone bumps my elbow and I am shaken from my daydream. The train is crawling to a halt and I realize this is my stop. But before I get off I must know her name, the name of the woman that changed my life forever. I glance around, looking for a clue. And right before the doors open, as I weave my way through the throngs of humanity, I see on bottom of the ad, just below the mother-of-pearl smile, the words – “Romance by Ralph Lauren.”