I finished peeling the orange and brought my fingertips to my nose. Mary Katherine Gallagher, I am not. I inhaled deeply and my eyelids fluttered, my lashes tickling my cheekbones. "I love that scent," I sighed airily. "They ought to bottle that..." my lips curved into a soft smile.

My acquaintance, quite used to my random romantic moments, my pleasure from the ordinary, replied in a bored monotone, "It's called orange juice."