The question of a time of death was complicated by one’s perception. A realist, a coroner, a scientist, would have put it sometime around 4:30 PM, Saturday night, the approximate moment when the bullet passed through his heart. However, on a different level, one disassociated from science, or law, or the material, on an intimate level, on a level which could scarcely be counted, Victor had died the week before when something more fatal then lead shredded his heart.
Yes, Cupid misfired, for the boy is cross-eyed, and Victor received such a fatal, such a one-sided, shot from that old bow that he was as good as dead when she finally did him in.
Tale Told 
Like this a lot (or allot, as many economical reviewers are now saying). Describes well both the female of the species and the capricious “choice” of for whom the poor, lummox falls.
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