The words stream through my mind; enveloping me in rich, voluptuous warmth. Deep in my chest, I feel the tender acquiescence to an irresistible force. I wallow in these lines. And I one-hundred-percent reject them.

The character Fosca, who sings these lyrics in the Stephen Sondheim musical Passion, is a fierce and intelligent woman who surrenders her fine-tuned being into love for Giorgio. She is obsessed, unreasonable, and yet, by the end of the play, she has captured me, and I admire her for the complete commitment of her devotion.

But a role model, she is not.

Sondheim wrote this song long after I was launched into adulthood. Fortunately, its allure wasn’t around to seduce me in my vulnerable years when I threw myself headlong into tumultuous, tear-stricken romances. Now, my identity is composed of multiple parts: woman, writer, mother, teacher, and, yes, partner and lover to my husband of more than 40 years. Loving him, however, is not who I am. It is what I feel, even what I do. My devotion is indeed a choice, one I make every day of our life together. That life has been an eventful ride through companionable teamwork, irritations, shared grief, disappointed expectations, grand adventures, and mutual support. What we treasure now is a loving connection, deep and unbreakable. By choice.

Now, I can love Sondheim’s lines for their sheer beauty. Art is not life. Thank goodness.