This is romance:

Walking over a pedestrian bridge over a river alight with the reflections of streetlamps on a slightly overcast night with just enough rain sprinkling down to dust some rain freckles across your nose. Holding hands with your loved one, eyes wide, taking in the majesty of skyscrapers, exchanging glances, shy smiles, a fresh breeze in your face.

This is romance on drugs:
walking over said footbridge, same environmental conditions as described above, except your loved one is several yards ahead of you because he is a Very Fast Walker, and you are corralled between a lovey-dovey couple who found happiness with eachother in the process of divorcing other people on one side, and a older woman in very tight leather pants walking along with her teenage daughter in front of you, both are clad in very expensive clothing. Someone catcalls.
The mom replies back, in supposed defense of her daughter, "You couldn't handle her, she's too expensive."
The daughter protests, "mom! I'm not!"
The mom replies, "I'm telling you what I tell Rebecca! You're expensive. You need to own it!"
The mom swishes her tush and encourages the daughter to saunter.

John Keats rolled over in his grave, and probably about 50 lovebirds around the world dropped dead for no apparent reason AT THAT VERY MOMENT.

I'm still deciding if being a witness to this instance makes my life richer or poorer.