I was meeting a woman at a café — a business meeting, nothing personal. We had just started talking when her phone rang.

One time, I was meeting a girl — strictly business — at a café. Suddenly, her phone rang. “Oh no!” she exclaimed. “Where is it?”

She plunged her hand into her bag — a big leather one. The phone kept ringing as she searched. “Where the hell is it?” she muttered.

Then she did something bold: she dumped the entire contents of her bag out onto the table.

Out spilled three lipsticks, a heavy perfume bottle, tangled earbuds, a roll of cotton pads in plastic wrap, green mascara, a postcard from Bali, an unopened pack of flavored condoms, and a large hairbrush.

But that wasn’t all. She kept shaking the bag. Out came a movie ticket from the night before — a romantic drama at a trendy theater — a book titled How to Eat Strudel and Stay Slim,

chopsticks from a Japanese restaurant, a packet of wet wipes, half a chocolate bar, a MacBook, pink sunglasses, a sky-blue umbrella, and shiny black heels.

And finally — the long-awaited phone. Spread out on the table before me was an entire female universe. I couldn’t look away.

The truth is: a woman is her bag. Everything inside it — that’s her. Her worries, dreams, routines, and secrets. Even a single movie ticket can tell a story.

She went alone, in the evening, to a fashionable theater. She’s searching in the dark — and still hasn’t found who she’s looking for. The cute condom pack? Still sealed.

Honestly, I’d start a TV show called The Bag. Celebrities hand over their bags anonymously. A panel of expert judges inspects the contents and builds a profile of the owner.

Meanwhile, she sits in a secret room, listening nervously as they analyze her. “Oh, is that really me? Well… maybe it is.” Then, at the end, she walks dramatically into the studio. Applause.

A bag tells the truth better than any horoscope or therapy session. Stars lie, psychologists guess, but the bag never lies. It’s a good thing purses can’t talk — the stories they could tell!

That’s why a handbag is a woman’s best friend. Her closest, most loyal, most intuitive companion. Women face a constant dilemma: they always want a new bag. A different one for each day.

A sleek black one for Monday, a brown one with fringe for Tuesday, a pink one with gold zippers for Wednesday… and so on, until Sunday, when maybe it’s a white backpack.

Or no, a canvas tote that says All You Need Is Love. Or maybe… But there’s a catch: each morning she’d have to transfer her entire world from one bag to another.

From brown to pink, from pink to Love… It’s enough to drive anyone mad. You’ve just organized one universe — and now you have to build a new one from scratch.

Even God took six days to make the world. A woman gets 15 minutes. So it’s easier to stick with one bag — where everything has found its place.

Only a clueless, two-dimensional man would say a woman’s bag is chaos. It’s not. It’s higher order. Same goes for the mess in a woman’s car glove box — but that’s another story.

And women have a special kind of magic. They can expand the space inside a bag to fit anything they need.

Once, I bought my girlfriend a clutch in Florence — took me forever to pick it out. It was tiny — just big enough for a phone and lipstick.

I kept turning it over in my hands, worrying she might not like it. I even asked the sales assistant for advice. Told her my girlfriend was gentle and romantic.

The woman smiled and said, “Bene! Perfetto! Take this one. Don’t doubt it.” So I brought it back to Moscow. My girlfriend was thrilled — showered me with kisses.

Later, we went to the theater. She took the new clutch, beaming with joy. Mid-performance, I needed a tissue to clean my glasses. I never carry any. I wasn’t about to use my jacket.

She reached into the clutch and pulled out a pack of tissues. I was stunned. How did that chunky pack even fit? Then I said I was thirsty — and she pulled out a bottle of water.

At that point, I’d completely lost interest in the play. I was obsessed with the clutch. How was this possible? I’m convinced: if I had suddenly craved a hot meat pie, she would’ve pulled it out — along with a microwave to heat it.

A woman’s purse is pure sorcery. It defies the laws of physics. While physicists chase black holes and galaxies, the real mystery is much closer — it’s the handbag next to them.

That’s the true enigma of the universe. Forget the telescope. They should ask their wives: How do you fit a black hole into a purse?

There’s your Nobel Prize, right there. And Stephen King too — though even he couldn’t crack that mystery.