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Funny how the woman is always distant or detached or arrogant to the self-aggrandising or self-pitying male narrator, who glorifies her regardless

“I’m ready,” she said, as if a firing squad awaited her outside.

“Oh, you know,” she said. “One of those cold, unsatisfied types. An aesthete.”

“From the smile she gave me, anybody would have thought she’d spent the whole evening waiting for me. It was a smile that isolated the person it was addressed to, raising him to heights he would never have suspected he could conquer. A smile like a blow to the head, in which only one thing remained unequivocal. That she didn’t give a damn about you.”