Why Attention Isn’t Enough Anymore

Looking out over Camps Bay | Cape Town, South Africa

He fell for me long before he saw me in person.

When he introduced himself via e-mail, welcoming me in advance to the luxurious villa booked months before, he was dissecting my responses. I was respectful, yes. Articulated myself well. Maybe he took a peek at my profile picture, a seven-year-old professional photo of a version of me that no longer exists, but that I keep using whenever I want to be perceived as a bit more polished.

I had checked him out, too. I shared his photo with my girlfriends, teasing them that these were the kind of men to expect in Cape Town. Well put together. Chocolate and smooth. Adding a little bit more excitement to what was sure to be a memorable trip. But for me, it was all jokes. I’m a choosy lover who craves deep intimacy over surface-level connection. But still, it doesn’t hurt for a girl to dream.

“We’re on the way!” I texted him as we departed from the airport.

For a fleeting moment, I felt like I was checking in with my man, giving updates on when to expect me throughout our day—something that would carry on for the duration of our stay. It was a foreign feeling for a girl who has been unintentionally single for nearly a decade; I’m used to moving without a second thought. But I wanted to be considerate of his time, for I assumed that it was something of value to him. And I have a feeling he took note of that, too.

The black Mercedes-Benz van carried us through the hills of Camps Bay as the sun began to set over the city, casting a beautiful dusky glow over the mountains above and ocean below. As our driver yapped away about the places we should go and things we should do, my thoughts drifted to ones of romance. There was something enticing and sexy about the city, and I had a feeling that it didn’t end with just the view.

The pictures of the villa didn’t do it justice. It was a home that made me dream of the possibilities. A Being Mary Jane kind of abode, thoughtfully designed, beautifully crafted. High-end finishes, a heated pool with an ocean view, and every comfort one could think of.

Stripped down from the black suit in his photo, he gave us a tour in a white tee and green cargo shorts—casual, yet comfortable in his element. As he showed us around the home, we locked eyes a time or two, long enough to suggest but short enough to reconsider.

And that was how the first couple of days would go— him asking if there was anything that we needed, and how he could be of service, me assuring him that we were good, and occasionally obliging to his assistance. Our physical encounters were brief, but long enough for my friends to peep that his eyes lingered just a little longer than his words. I brushed their encouragement of a rendezvous to the side. I’m no Stella; I desire more than a temporary groove.

But by the third night, his intrusive thoughts got the best of him in the best way.

We invited him to sip a glass of the Diemersdal Bordeaux blend that he had selected for us hours before. D’Angelo crooned softly in the background in tribute to his memory as flames from the fireplace flickered suggestively. The conversations flowed from dating to family dynamics. I delved deeper into the details of his life while sharing little of my own—a gift that I’ve mastered as a way to discern from an emotional distance.

Two glasses in, we were craving a slice of something gooey and warm. But Uber Eats switched to pickup only, so we convinced our host to haul us into the city to collect our order.

In the front seat of his Volvo on buttery leather seats, we connected over Afrobeats and R&B while my friends cackled behind us. I knew what they were hoping for, and I was committed to disappointing them. But as I hopped out of the car to gather our goods, to my surprise, he stepped out alongside me, grabbed my hand, and led me across the street. I let my hand rest in his, glad to feel protected on a street filled with the drunk and the debaucherous spilling out from the bars and clubs of Long Street.

Inside, Prime Pizza was dark, moody, and empty except for the cashier, who stepped away to grab our box of pepperoni pleasure. As I began to pull away from his grasp and towards the counter, he gently pulled me back and into a kiss— passionate, fervent, and borderline dangerous.

“You’re so sweet,” he whispered as our lips parted from one another.

Back at the car, I felt like I carried a delicious secret that I hesitated to share with my friends, but would cave in later when we were alone. I knew that if I wanted, the night didn’t have to end, for our host lived in a unit connected to the home.

But the thing about discipline and discernment is that even in the most enticing moments, self-love and self-awareness overcome the urge to give in.

Over the next few days, he would ask for more—more time, more attention, more kisses—and I would give him less. It’s not that I didn’t desire the things that I’ve come to miss, but a deeper part of me knew that this was no real relationship. Despite his confession of love, it was temporary satisfaction, at best.

After I returned home, we had one more conversation that I knew, on my end, would probably be our last. He shared why he felt so drawn to me and admitted to saving a couple of photos he found on my Instagram. I asked him to show me which ones, for I believe what a person likes says a lot about how they perceive me. The photos he saved were from years past. Just like the profile pic in my e-mail, it was of a version of a girl who no longer exists.

A part of me felt frustrated that, once again, I was being desired by a man who fell for the idea of me, and not the reality.

A man who was quick to covet, but slow to learn.

And while I appreciated his honesty and valued his communication, what he wanted from me was something that had yet to be earned. Further conversation revealed that this was infatuation, not love, though one is often easily mistaken for the other. And what frustrated me most was knowing that this was why I was still without a lover of my own.

While I enjoy the feeling of being desired, what I want most is to be understood. To truly know me is to love me — and that’s not something a casual encounter in Cape Town, or an old photo on social media, could ever reveal.