What is love? Ah, the age-old question which has befuddled philosophers for centuries.
They should have come to me. I could have told them.
This is love:
Discovering a cricket hopping across the kitchen floor one chilly December morn.
Knowing that your beloved wife, the sainted and normally quite brave and nature-loving Top Management has a thing about crickets.
Picking up the cricket—no easy task as The Boy happily chases the cricket away from by trying to stomp on it.
Choosing to look at The Boy’s violent streak as a sign of ignorance as regards the nature of the cricket rather than malevolence.
Succeeding in picking up the cricket.
Looking at the cricket in your hand.
Looking over at Top Management wrapped up in a blanket in front of the computer.
Looking at the cricket in your hand.
Looking over at Top Management wrapped up in a blanket in front of the computer.
Looking at the cricket in your hand.
Looking over at Top Management wrapped up in a blanket in front of the computer.
Seriously debating brightening this cold morning considerably by going over and showing it to her—a distance of about five and a half inches from her nose should be just right.
Looking at the cricket in your hand.
Looking over at Top Management wrapped up in a blanket in front of the computer.
Deciding to toss it out on the front porch instead.
Tossing it on the front porch instead.
Watching the cricket turn to look up at you like, "Hey, what the hell did I ever do to you? I was happy and warm in there! Why’d you toss me out here?"
Answering, "Because, mon ami—that is love."
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