Call it a curse. Jens Lekman's is a world populated by an endless stream of women. But not just any sort of women.

No, these are the sort of women that inspire the most joyous of heartbreak in your mild-mannered crooner.

There he is: hair mussed & glasses off-kilter, sitting in the corner of the cafe with his journal bookmarked once again; he's being torn in two.

Moments ago he fell in love with the red-headed barrista who so nailed his order _ when she scooted that cappuccino across the counter into his his writing hand, it was clear that there was a connection.

For real. And now, while blissing out, unable to concentrate on his writing, his eye catches across from him in the love seat (just left of the rack of bread loaves and under the plastic lobster chandelier) the picture of divinity itself in the shape of the most finely featured brunette he's ever seen.

And she's looking this way. But which way to go? It's tragic having to make such choices.

Like Truffaut's The Man Who Loved Women, Lekman is a man forever at a crossroads between competing inspirations.