Some days, sitting at this table with this bottle (or one of its twins) for half an hour is the highlight of my week. No explanation possible.

The food at my favorite restaurant is forgettable. The service is friendly, yes, but no better than you’d expect at any family-owned meat-and-three. The location is inconvenient, the parking is crowded, the chairs have no cushions and the prices are higher than they ought to be.

Yet I go. And I go. And I go, God help me, knowing it will be exactly what it is, knowing it isn’t going to change, not one jot, not even wanting it to. Why? Because I’m in love with it.

Why, indeed.

You probably know someone who’s fallen in love against their own better judgement, who’s shunned the wealthy, curled darlings of their nation in favor of a no-goodnik and tried to justify the folly with a list of whys and wherefores that made you doubt their sanity. I have such a list, but I won’t bother you with it. I’m not so far gone as to think you’d hear it and say, “Ah. Well, then. That’s a horse of a different color,” because I know it isn’t horse of a different color.

I’m not delusional, after all.

Just smitten.