often , though , there were no others , there was only the one source , the one siren , calling the one hunter , conjuring in his mind ( and conjuring , he had more than once noted in his journal , is the precise word , for the image produced by the tendril was not the image of the actual female emitting , but your image of the female you want to be emitting , and often as not these two images were in wild conflict ) : the lonely , lovely , seductively dressed , mysteriously inviting , always willing woman closer and closer , and there , perhaps stepping out of a car , perhaps looking out a window , perhaps walking toward you , even , perhaps , running away from you , there she was and now , youre that close and emitting tendrils , thick as tentacles , of your own , reaching for , reaching , snaring , and now like a fly-fisher with a glistening , laughing trout on the line , you begin to reel her in , and all you see is whom you want to see , and she is all that her scent portrayed , for you supply all the details , and perhaps she sees you the way she dreams you to be , though sometimes ( which is why hes convinced that women see better than men in these circumstances ) she sees you for what you are , as not necessarily her dreamed and longed mate , and parts of her change her mind , or tries to change her mind quite desperately , but can not , for your line is too strong , and too taut , and her need is too fundamental .