It would be strange to think of myself as some sort of Jezebel, a temptress with scores of men at the crook of her finger. It would be bizarre picturing me as an angel-faced beauty, ludicrous to think men flirting for pleasure, or asking for my name or number, or even drawing me as their goddess.
It would be harder, still, to imagine myself in some sort of romance story, a protacted courtship over modern post--the eccentric yet "charming" girl, and the confident, intelligent gent toiling continents away, who haven't seen each other in four years.
It sounds like a recipe for a a fairy tale, which is alarming.
How much love can there be if the girl-woman is certain her otherwise Romeo is a Don Juan of international stripes, and she is no longer interested besides? There's not much chance if the poet doesn't even recognize his maybe-muse in their last face-to-face appearance.
No happily ever after here.
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