That awkward moment when the author think this is how teenage-boys daydream about girls:
'Her slender arm flows gracefully out of her gown, the gleam of silvery light along her arm like the reflection of moonlight along the river. She gathers her hair from the back and with the expert sweep of one hand brushes it over her shoulder, exposing the sinuous nape of her neck. I wonder if she is thinking of me the way I am of her: incessantly, obsessively, helplessly.'
pfft as if.