Women are a curious lot and I find it almost fascinating to ponder that there exist, down to this day, so few novels about women detectives. Even good ol’ Agatha chose a French man (the closest masculine form to a woman) as her protagonist. Maybe women are bad detectives, who knows, but that is not the point here anyways.
They do have an innate curiosity; perhaps limited in its range of applicability and reasoning, but deep like desire. Allow me to proffer some examples. A woman, when accosted by a handsome and well-spoken bachelor, will promptly and instinctively wonder just this one thing: why is he still single? And, in cases when such men are found to be of an already-betrothed stature, women cast doubt as to the reason why these men are so overtly attractive, almost peacock-like in their flamboyant lure, as if trying to sneak around their obviously better-but- vulnerable halves. Then, if someone in the neighbourhood acquires a fancy new car/house/lover, the women of the house are the first to sound the sirens: the Jones’s have outdone you. And in cases contrary when said neighbours don’t indulge in any activity that can be seen as flagrant or frivolous, then obviously they are raking in even more and are scared to make a show of it. This bi-polar nature of their curiosity extends to everything: dressing up, attending functions, shopping… everything! And then, nothing. In other words, the ends should justify the meaningful forthcoming reasoning. There is no science to understanding the workings of a woman’s mind; the only possibility that we men have is to meander along, flexibly so, and to comply and coordinate. The constant manly agony of craving the company of a woman with all her idiosyncrasies intact is the only illogical indulgence we men allow ourselves for we know that, without this wringing and contorting sufferance of our minds in agony over their twisted logics, our lives could never be for the better without them.
The writer is a lover of women and also a sommelier