Of late, I’ve been charged with flirting blatantly. And I certainly plead guilty. A modest blush paints my face. I look at you, you frown with disapproval. I pass a smile, your frown disappears into thin air. I perhaps then pass a wink, too.
Many of you fine wordsmiths will agree that the art of flirting comes naturally when words are your true and only smithy. Oh, you do know well enough that words can thaw the frosty sylphs or conceited dudes, words can create wonders out of voids, can make many a brave hearts flutter and shudder and bleed and swoon.
Yet, this art is accompanied by a curse. For who would believe your words in time to come if you compare almost everyone to a summer’s day? Woo, good friends, but with a measure.
You say you’re too coy? And that such opportunities are rare? And the thought itself makes you weak at the knees?
But haven’t you found yourself wooing and flirting now and then? With acquaints or with complete strangers? In a coffee house or a club or even in a bus stand whilst waiting for the bus to arrive? Or perhaps in messages with people sitting half the world away from you?
I certainly have and I came back alive, my heart a crack-less, complete whole.
I, therefore, see no reason why flirting should not be pursued shamelessly. After all, there are no serious repercussions of this playful act. Plus, flirting fills up the cavity which the absence of a romantic partner creates in the chest.
Reeling backward in time, we are met with the age when courting and wooing used to be the office of men alone. Oh dear!
A realization dawned upon me- even today, it’s relatively easier for men to flirt as compared to women. Women usually refrain from flirting, since along with flirting comes great expectations and grave misunderstandings. And secretly, we hope to be courted by you fine gentlemen out there.
Some days, I am out and about with my poetic bait, chasing a fancy he-butterfly. He is always, always fluttering and flying- away from my grasp…But he’s so beautiful I cannot stop myself from carrying on this vain chase. Other days, I want to sit the old-fashioned way, wait by the open casement for a lover to come and sing me serenades. On such days, I wish to be wooed and kissed and loved, and often, too.
A hopeless wish, true, but not entirely so.
“How?” You may ask.
“For my dear darling, the one reading this, for a wooer I have you!”