Once, there was a woman who fancied a man deeply. She felt a stirring in her heart whenever he was near, drawn to his charm and presence. She believed she loved him.
Yet, she was often disheartened. No matter how she tried to catch his eye—flirting in playful tones, casting lingering glances, finding excuses to linger near him, even loosening the top button of her blouse—it all came to naught. He remained indifferent.
Worse still, he began showing interest in another woman at work—a plain, unremarkable woman, even older than himself. He chatted with her endlessly, brought her tea from the vending machine, gazed at her warmly. Soon, he was driving her home, for she hadn’t even learned to drive.
How could this be? The smitten woman was clearly fairer and younger. Yet he had no spark for her. No answering affection.
The truth was simple. This lovestruck lady knew little—and cared less—about the man who had so captivated her. Oh, she knew he was unmarried, that his salary was handsome, his suits well-tailored, his car fine indeed. But that was all. She cared only for the man himself—his handsome face, his magnetic pull, the way she yearned to melt into his arms, to marry him, to claim him.
And what on earth could he and that plain woman possibly talk about? Writing, calling, sitting in his car without even driving—just talking. That wasn’t love. That was mere chatter.
But love *is* chatter. Love is understanding a person so deeply that you catch their meaning before they finish speaking. It’s laughing at a joke before the punchline because you already know it’s coming. It’s speaking the same language, endlessly, because every word between you matters. It’s caring whether he’s eaten, whether his father’s treatment worked, whether his back still aches.
*Do you remember that old Sinbad film, the one with the clay monster chasing the sailor? Wear your coat today, there’s a chill. Did you play rounders at school? There’s a line by Maugham—remember? Look, the leaves have turned yellow like old letters and photographs. My violets have bloomed after years—see? You kept cacti once, didn’t you? When one flowered, you were so pleased.*
*Let me feel your forehead—are you feverish? You feel warm. Wear your cap. The wind’s sharp today.*
And then an embrace. Because you live and breathe for him. Because he is yours, and you are his.
To an outsider, it sounds like babble. Childish prattle. But to those who love, it is the language of the heart. A deep, abiding interest in every small thing that makes up a life.
The lovestruck woman? She cared only for herself, for the feeling she called *love*. But it was hunger. A craving to possess something desirable, to sate an ache. *Mine, mine, mine.*
Yet what you do not understand can never truly be yours. A song you cannot fathom will never move you. A poem beyond your grasp will never speak to you. And a person you do not understand—do not *wish* to understand—will never be yours, no matter how you scheme to win them.
No trickery summons love. Only a matching hunger answers another’s—until two selfish souls part, bewildered. *What now? We’ve nothing in common.*
You may love a swan—admire its grace, feed it, shield it from the cold. Or you may love it as Henry the Eighth did, turning it to pâté, devouring it. For a moment, you are sated. Then—disappointment. Where is the swan now?
So it is with love. Some understand neither others nor love itself. They unfasten buttons, murmur sweetly, cast longing looks. Sometimes, they catch their swan. But there is no joy in it—only fleeting fullness.
And to explain true love to them? Near impossible. They cannot grasp it.
