A woman fancies a man. She feels drawn to him, utterly smitten. She believes she’s in love.
Yet her heart sinks. He doesn’t return her feelings, no matter how hard she tries—flirting in a playful tone, casting lingering glances, finding excuses to talk, undoing the top button of her blouse. She does everything by the book, but it’s useless.
Worse still, he starts paying attention to another colleague—an ordinary, older woman, nothing special. He spends ages chatting with her, brings her coffee from the machine, gazes at her warmly. Soon, he even drives her home. The woman can’t even drive herself! How could this be? The smitten woman is clearly prettier and younger, yet he doesn’t fancy her.
The answer is simple. She knows nothing, and cares to know nothing, about the man she desires. Oh, she knows he’s single, that his salary is handsome, his suits designer, his car flashy. But that’s it. Nothing else matters.
She’s fixated on the man himself—handsome, magnetic, the kind you ache to fall into. She wants a relationship. She wants to marry him.
So what on earth does he talk about with that plain woman? Texting, calling, sitting in the car for ages just chatting. That’s not love, that’s just talk.
But love *is* talk. It’s understanding someone completely—finishing their sentences, laughing at a joke before they’ve finished telling it, speaking the same language and never running out of words. It’s caring about every little thing. Did he eat? How’s his dad’s treatment going? His back still sore? Remember that old *Sinbad* film with the clay monster chasing him? Wear a warm coat tonight, it’s chilly. Played rounders at camp?
Remember that line from Maugham? Look, the leaves have turned, like old letters and photographs. My violet’s blooming—hadn’t for years, but here it is, alive again. You used to grow cacti at school, didn’t you? When yours flowered, you were so chuffed. Let me feel your forehead—you’re warm. Wear a hat, it’s windy.
And then I’ll hug you. Because you’re my reason for breathing. You’re mine, and I’m yours.
To an outsider, it’s just chatter. Nonsense. Childish babble. But it’s the language of love, understood only by those who feel it. It’s deep, endless interest in another person.
The smitten woman was only interested in herself—and her so-called “love,” which was really just hunger. A craving to possess, to consume. But you can’t truly own what you don’t understand. Music you don’t grasp will never move you. Poetry you can’t fathom won’t speak to you. And a person you don’t know, don’t *want* to know, will never be yours.
No tricks can conjure love—only mutual appetite, and that fades. Then what? You’re left with a stranger.
You can admire a swan—feed it, shelter it, protect it. Or you can roast it, make pâté, like Henry VIII. Devour it. Feel full, then empty. Where’s the swan now?
Love is much the same. Some people don’t understand others, or love itself. They undo buttons, whisper sweet nothings, sometimes even catch their prize. But there’s no joy in it. Just fleeting satisfaction.
Explaining it to them is hopeless. They’ll never get it.
Author: Anna Kiryanova.
