Indeed. Although I imagine it's difficult to develop romantic notions about a woman when all you can see is her eyes, kind of. Then again, the eyes are the window to the soul (or some such thing).
The skeptic is never for real. There he stands, cocktail in hand, left arm draped languorously on one end of the mantelpiece, telling you that he can't be sure of anything, not even of his own existence. I'll give you my secret method of demolishing universal skepticism in four words. Whisper to him: "Your fly is open." If he thinks knowledge is so all-fired impossible, why does he always look? — James Sire (from, The Universe Next Door)