Once you have the pattern of life of this person, the choreography, so to speak, you have the canvas that you present eight times a week, not without feeling underneath it, but it's not as churning as the discovery process was.
I told the ambulance men the wrong blood type for my ex, so he knows what rejection feels like.
Ah, tell me not that memory sheds gladness o'er the past, what is recalled by faded flowers, save that they did not last?