Men and women look at romance differently. To a woman anything that’s not a dozen long-stemmed roses is a bunch of weeds. To a man, so what if he picked them out of the yard? A flower is a flower. Besides, romance is just foreplay and only as a last resort.

Chocolate doesn’t come in a wrapped six ounce bar in her romantic thoughts. He thinks, chocolate is chocolate.

A candlelit dinner with champagne is romance. To a guy it’s a stock car race, preferably without her wearing perfume to block the engine fumes and preferably without her at all. She’s always says that racing is boring as if he didn’t know it.

A small, intimate table, white wine and a candle is romance, she thinks. It sets her mood. He wants a boilermaker drank under a neon sign hanging from the bar. He forgets that it’s her moods that determines whether or not he gets any later.

Romantic music is a softly played piano with a light string arrangement. He wants loud rock until the action starts. Heck, forget the music.

Her romantic magic is sweet nothings. His is half of that...nothing.