Galahad's Love

When a player got zero point, it’s called ‘love’. Although the theory is often heard that it represents the French word l'oeuf, meaning 'an egg' (from the resemblance between an egg and a zero) this seems unlikely. "Love" means zero. In tennis, the server's score is given first, so "love-fifteen" means the server has no points, the opponent has fifteen.--Quora

I am going to get into trouble here if the real time medical professionals who have waltzed in and out of my technological catastrophe since November chance upon this account and put two and two together, and I need no more grief than my life has already purchased, merci beaucoup, nevertheless, the care giver and his patient, within a week of dive bombing each other, came within a milometer of engaging in sexual intercourse on a hospital bed whose electronics might have been damaged in the process, and it certainly isn't the hottest contact I ever had, but riveting suits, and after he clocks out, I pace the studio like a caged jaguar for any length of time, then he takes over at 11 am, like a panther, and I fall in love with this gargantuan magnanimity of his a little further each day. We have battled. He has given me truths I thought I needed to hear: if I leave this agency then it's over, right? He nods, but then we're back on the trampoline. I've lashed myself like any worthwhile Catholic ascetic, swung my own metronome back and forth, lashed out in my posts here. It is pointless. I'm in love with him. He has ignored my requests to retreat when he's able to do so. I seriously do not know how long I can ignore my impulse to flee. I can do so without providing any reason in my request for a transfer. It would temporarily halt his paycheck but would otherwise leave him fit for duty.

I have been a very tough girl, all of my life, but not this tough. Were it not for the money, he'd take me, but says I'd never be able to hold him. I am doing a remarkable job, thus far, by taking the bits of his defenses which drop, but where am I going to be in six months, if, eight weeks in, I have cashed in every pressed rose petal at my command? We live together half the day as if we are husband and wife. I cannot not touch him, but then stop myself.afraid, really now, of taking him. We aren't school children, and I necessarily find myself consoled by Woody Allen's expiation of his own indulgences as an embittered old man. Cassandra's Dream and Match Point are excoriating narratives unraveling his own guilt at the scandal, and they fascinate for that reason, even as a hint of criminal incest has chased him since the storm broke. I am in nothing like that, but this lion heart, in his determination to filter out my bile, may find his zealotry penetrating my last broken heart, sizable arrowheads too well aimed.