How do women know when and how that arrow will invade a man's heart? Why do they not miss the tremor of the hand holding the coffee mug, nor the gaze of the raped eye at that curve or that smile? How do they notice the disturbance even if it is disguised by a thousand letters, and even if it is hidden by a hundred curtains of seriousness and mystery? Why are their feelings hidden under layers of honeyed and hoped-for cloak, and why, likewise, do men's eyes not reach the secrets of their hearts?
