cupid.

I sort of imagined that the attraction would be a warm, happy, good-natured feeling. Something that would make me frown a little at myself, probably laugh self-consciously at the betrayal of my own accelerating pulse. Something silly and simple enough to file away under the annals of centuries of poetry and a veritable galaxy of songs. A warm blanket that felt nice, fit well, but could be set aside for more important things.

The truth is, there isn't one way it happens. I'm sure of at least that much. There's a world of difference between the suave chemical allure of charming repartee and a violent physical jolt that fills your veins with a volatile kerosene and turns a stove dial in your arteries.

The first sits, stews, simmers, until your senses register a gradual hot-tub comprehension of enjoyment and you think, gee, I really like where this is going. The other comes crashing in, the emotional equivalent of a hammer annihilating a carnival strength-test lever with enough hurricane force to set off all the blinding lights and shatter the bell with a tremendous peal, leaving you overwhelmed and only aware of a burning deficit in your account.