There was this woman, Charlotte, who fancied a bloke named James. Proper smitten, she was—couldn’t stop thinking about him. He had this charm about him, you know? Handsome, well-dressed, drove a posh car. She reckoned she was in love, but honestly, it was more like an obsession.
She’d go out of her way to get his attention—flirty little voice, batting her eyelashes, leaving that top button undone on her blouse. The lot. But nothing worked. Not a peep from him. Worse yet, he started paying all this attention to another coworker, Margaret. Lovely woman, mind, but hardly glamorous—older than him, no flashy car, just… normal. Yet there he was, fetching her coffee from the machine, chatting for ages, even giving her lifts home.
Charlotte couldn’t wrap her head around it. She was younger, prettier—why wasn’t *she* the one he fancied? Thing is, she didn’t really know a thing about James. Sure, she knew he was single, made good money, wore expensive suits. But that was it. She didn’t care *who* he was—just that she wanted him. Wanted to be his, to marry him.
Meanwhile, James and Margaret? They talked. Proper talked. Texts, calls, sitting in his car for ages just yammering on. To Charlotte, it seemed pointless. “That’s not love,” she thought. “That’s just words.”
But love *is* words. It’s knowing someone—*really* knowing them. Laughing at their jokes before they finish, remembering the little things. *Did you eat? How’s your dad’s back? Remember that old *Jason and the Argonauts* film with the dodgy stop-motion monster? Wear a coat, it’s chilly out.* It’s caring if they’re warm, if they’re well, if they’re happy.
Charlotte wasn’t in love. She was hungry. Wanted to *have* him, not *know* him. But you can’t own what you don’t understand. Music you don’t get won’t move you. Poetry that makes no sense won’t stick. And a person? If you don’t *know* them, they’ll never truly be yours.
Some folks think love’s about possession—like hunting a swan. You can admire it, feed it, keep it safe. Or, like Henry VIII, you can turn it into pâté, eat it, feel full… then wonder where the swan went.
No amount of flirting, unbuttoned blouses, or smoldering glances can *make* someone love you. At best, you might snag someone just as selfish. But then what? You’re stuck with a stranger.
Trying to explain real love to someone like that? Near impossible. They just don’t get it.
