The summer she turned 19, she read 131 Harlequin Romances. As a clerk in a campground store that catered to elderly snowbirds, she’d frequently delve into the lending library to pass the time. The selection of books varied only slightly from formulaic romances to full-out bodice rippers. Because it was a rainy summer and she was confined to a small space, she read for hours at a time. Toxic exposure to amorous melodrama was a condition from which she never fully recovered.

The affliction certainly hadn’t diminished by the winter of 1993. She had moved to Saranac Lake by then. Although they had laid dormant for months, the symptoms suddenly reappeared, leaving her flushed and a bit breathless. The fluttering heartbeat, the anticipation of “accidentally” bumping into that certain someone, the somewhat misplaced jealousy toward coworkers — all the signs were there. She was suffering from severe Cupiditis.

She tried to play it cool like the heroines in those cheesy novels. The cold winter evenings were spent at impromptu Free Spirit meetings where Winter Carnival Gala Parade plans were made. All the while, she made sure there was an empty chair nearby, in case he arrived. And frequently, he did.

They had met before, in her classroom: A tense encounter that left a bitter taste in both of them. After a few meetings, that initial misunderstanding was cleared up. This rocky start wasn’t a problem; in fact, she saw it as a sign. It was simply the common “Enemies to Lovers” trope; at least three-quarters of the romances had followed that pattern.

What was a problem was a female workmate who would sometimes arrive at his side. While trying to appear indifferent and even friendly, she secretly seethed whenever the other woman appeared. The other problem was that while he was friendly and even a bit flirty, he was that way with everybody. How could a girl possibly know where she stood?

Environmental conditions exacerbated the Cupiditis. Red and pink baubles were everywhere as the Carnival Parade would be on Valentine’s Day. Snow sculptures on neighborhood lawns featured intertwining hearts, and store windows decorated by elementary students were all variations on the theme. It was sensory overload and way too much for our poor schmaltzy sis.

Suffering from this extreme romantic disorder, she took action — she sent flowers and a sappy message to this unwitting young man. Momentarily regaining her sanity, she left the note unsigned. If he were interested, he would know who sent it; otherwise, she might save herself some embarrassment. That was Friday.

By Saturday, she was convinced that her floral outpouring of affection was ill-advised and disastrous. The chair remained empty at the final Free Spirit logistical meeting.

Sunday was parade day. To restore decorum, the Carnival committee had moved the traditional Saturday activity ahead a day. Watching a costumed Cupid go by in a gold Speedo and wings, she wondered if the change mattered. She also wondered if he would show.

His friendly, flirty, adorable self appeared — but still made no mention of the flowers. She tried to focus on the fun at hand: the handing out of candy, the Free Spirits’ chaotic lack of order, and the comical frustration of the parade officials as they attempted to reign in the merriment. At the end of the route, the troupe disbanded, vaguely suggesting that they might be at the fireworks.

She went down to the palace alone that night. Midway through the fireworks, she bumped into him. Although she was silent, her thoughts exploded with each new display: love, dreams … and doubts.

The last sparkling trails drifted into darkness, and she turned to walk home.

“Hey,” he called out, “thanks for the flowers.” (On Friday, the florist solved the mystery by reading him the name on the credit card receipt.) Romantic novels end with a kiss and a declaration of undying love. They don’t show the pain, the grit, or the hard work of marriage. They leave out the inevitable eye rolls, snorts of intolerance and occasional sharp words. Nothing is dreamy about wrinkles, cellulite or sharing a bathroom. Still, even in the presence of such harsh realities, Cupiditis can develop into a chronic condition.

So once a year, in the dark, she still stands at the Palace, watching the fireworks, and reminiscing about the dewy-eyed girl and the beginnings of love.

And this year, there’s a chance he will be standing beside her because the fireworks no longer conflict with the Superbowl.