A woman fancies a man. She feels drawn to him, utterly smitten, convinced it must be love.
Yet it troubles her deeply. Despite her best efforts to catch his eye—flirting in that playful, deliberate tone, casting lingering glances, finding excuses to chat, unbuttoning the top of her blouse—nothing works. He remains indifferent.
Worse still, he starts paying attention to another colleague. A plain, ordinary woman, even older than him. They talk for hours. He brings her coffee from the vending machine, watches her warmly as she leaves, and soon starts driving her home. She doesn’t even know how to drive! How can this be? The smitten woman is younger, more attractive—surely she should be the one he prefers. But he doesn’t return her feelings.
The truth is simple. The lovestruck woman knows nothing—and cares to know nothing—about the man who captivates her. Oh, she knows he’s single, that his salary is impressive, that his suits are designer, that his car is expensive. But beyond that? Nothing. She isn’t interested in *him*.
She’s interested in the *idea* of him. Handsome, magnetic, someone to sink into, to build a life with. To marry.
What on earth could he possibly talk about with that unremarkable woman? Texts, calls, sitting in his car without driving—just talking. It’s not love, surely. It’s just conversation.
But love *is* conversation. It’s understanding someone completely. Talking until you finish each other’s sentences, laughing at a joke before it’s even told because you already know. Speaking the same language, unable to run out of things to say. Being fascinated by a person—every part of them, always, from their first breath to their last.
Did he eat today? How’s his father’s treatment holding up? His back still bothering him? Remember that old *Sinbad* film with the stop-motion monster chasing the hero? Wear a proper coat today—it’s cold. Did you ever play rounders at summer camp? There’s this line in Maugham—remember? Look, the leaves are yellowing like old letters and photos. My violet’s finally blooming. It hadn’t for years, and suddenly—there it is! You kept cacti at school, didn’t you? I remember how thrilled you were when one flowered.
Let me check your forehead—you feel feverish. Wear a hat. It’s windy.
And then an embrace. Because you are the reason I breathe. You are mine. I am yours.
To outsiders, it’s just chatter. Nonsense. Childish babble. But no—it’s the language of love, spoken only by those who understand it. A deep, abiding interest in another soul.
The lovestruck woman is only interested in herself—in what she calls *love*. But it’s appetite. Hunger to possess what she desires. To devour, to claim. To make *mine*.
Yet what you do not understand can never be yours. Music you don’t grasp won’t move you. Poetry beyond your comprehension won’t stir your heart. And a person you don’t truly know—you cannot have them. Not really. You’re too consumed by want, by greed, by the need to *take*.
No trick can summon real love. The only thing you might spark is mutual appetite in another like you. Until, inevitably, you part ways—what else is there? A stranger remains a stranger.
You can adore a swan. Marvel at it, care for it, feed it, shield it from the cold and predators. Or you can love it—and then roast it to perfection. Serve it as a pâté, just as Henry VIII did. Devour it. Feel full. And then—disappointment. Where is the swan now?
So it is with love. Some people understand neither others nor love itself. So they unbutton blouses, murmur enticingly, cast alluring glances. Sometimes they catch their swan. But it brings no joy, no meaning. Only fleeting satisfaction.
And explaining to them what love truly is? Nearly impossible. They simply don’t understand.
