if it gets so good you only need to catch his eye to know what he’s thinking, you are, it is blindingly clear, totally screwed. You’re doomed to start an affair with a time limit on it, like life condensed. You have to lie around nursing an aching bosom and bleeding heart, and stop taking delight in anything, least of all being in the arms of your lover, on account of the fact that you know it’s cursed, and everything in your life takes on a gray sheen, like it’s always drizzling, indoors. And who the hell wants to get involved in any of that?
