‘‘ Whoever told you love was supposed to be perfect, anyway? Love’s not about perfection. It’s about grit under your fingernails and your hair getting caught in the corners of your mouth. It’s about his smile, and the way it loops up on one side more than the other and shows off the way his teeth crook a little on the left. It’s about a cold wind cutting through the insufficient padding of your layers and striping around the hot hyphen of his arm on your waist. Love is fire, wind, water. Love is a young orchestra sight-reading Mozart. Love is dischordant desperate screaming. Love is endless. Love is chaos.