She wants to know them, each individual like a brand new book, pages yet to be turned by her inquisitive fingers, bindings yet to be broken by the truth that they, too, are flawed, selfish, deceitful, human. When she meets a man, she experiences an exaggerated sense of purchase, placing this new acquisition up among the other collectibles on her shelf, to be admired for its smooth exterior and mysterious contents. She does not remove this man from his elevated position for awhile, not wanting to read his index of events or the lengthy bibliography of sources that have created what is now before her. She believes the fiction he has told her about himself, even though she knows that like the blurb of a novel, it is not based in truth but instead on what will sell. She continues this charade until curiosity, hype, and boredom force her to discover that once again, the style is unoriginal, the plot contrived, and the character ill-defined and unlikeable.
Love is a many splendored thing.
It takes two to tango. All is fair in love and war. Beauty is only skin deep. Love makes the world go round. It is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.