Alan has never met a woman. He has only seen (from a great distance, through binoculars) GROUPS of female-people gathering around the watering hole, each indistinguishable from all the others, so that sweeping generalization are all that he can say about them. Alan considers: what would it be like to actually see one close-up? Would they allow him to approach for a closer inspection? Could he actually TOUCH one? No, that would be beyond his wildest dreams, and he trembles, fearing they would tear him limb from limb.
His friends (well, just acquaintances, really; he has no friends) have told him to get a life, to stop obsessing about those mysterious creatures and concentrate on his career. But each evening as the sun gets low in the sky, he finds himself drawn to the watering hole. He crouches, uncomfortable on his perch, but it's the only tree around and he feels gratitude and pleasure in having found this particular branch upon which to squat. Here he remains, silent and motionless by the hour, as he waits for the woman-herd to come to the watering hole. And as night falls and the graceful forms depart one by one, he painfully stretches his cramped limbs, climbs down the tree, and hobbles home to his lonely bed, deeply ashamed of his nightly obsession but unable to desist. Here at home, the dreams are his only reward. In his dreams he caresses them, but knows he (terrified of their laughter) will never be brave enough to show himself, never have the courage to speak to one. He sleeps, he wakes, he spends his day sick to his stomach, nervously awaiting the next evening, the next sighting of these alluring, otherworldly creatures.
