There's a difference between beauty and charm. A beautiful woman

Host: The evening was slow, like honey sliding down a glass. The streetlights hummed with a low electric pulse, reflecting off the wet pavement of an old Parisian café terrace. Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, laughter, and the faint sound of a jazz trio playing in the corner — a lonely trumpet, a tired piano, and a bass that groaned like a heart remembering too much.

Jack sat by the window, his coat draped over the chair, his eyes fixed on the street beyond — sharp, grey, analytical. Jeeny, across from him, leaned in with quiet poise, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. Her dark hair fell in soft curls over her shoulder, and though the room buzzed with strangers, it felt as if the world had narrowed to their table — and the space between their words.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that woman by the bar for ten minutes, Jack.”

Jack: smirking slightly “Not true. Maybe five. But you noticed.”

Jeeny: “I always notice.”

Jack: “Then you’re charming.” leans back, eyes glinting with dry amusement “Erskine once said — ‘There’s a difference between beauty and charm. A beautiful woman is one I notice. A charming woman is one who notices me.’ You just proved his point.”

Host: The piano sighed, a slow cascade of notes like falling rain. Jeeny tilted her head, her eyes narrowing — not with offense, but curiosity, the kind that cuts deeper than pride.

Jeeny: “That’s a convenient philosophy for men who want to feel important. Charm, in that sense, isn’t a virtue — it’s a performance designed to feed a man’s ego. Why does noticing you make a woman charming?”

Jack: “Because attention is the rarest currency, Jeeny. Everyone’s chasing it — online, at work, in life. You notice a woman’s beauty; she notices your existence. It’s an equal transaction.”

Jeeny: “Equal?” laughs softly, shaking her head “It’s not equal when the measure of her worth depends on whether she notices you. That’s not charm — that’s validation dressed up as poetry.”

Host: A waiter passed by, leaving a faint scent of wine and tobacco. The light above their table flickered once, briefly, before steadying again. Jack watched her, his expression unreadable, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the wooden table.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. But