Tante Dolore Quante Amore
I am no friend to Love tonight.
A Highly Regarded Physician gave a lecture at the Society this afternoon entitled Tante Amore Quante Sanguine, in which he proposed to delve into the physiological causes of affections between the sexes. Having reflected on this topic before myself, and how it has on occasion propelled me to perform preposterous acts against all reason and Good Sense, and given the unusually high numbers of sweethearts I had seen this morning, flitting about hand-in-hand, I decided to attend.
I am a clinically responsible man: I never allow my emotions to impinge upon the focus of my academic pursuits. And yet midway through the lecture, with our speaker pointing at a spot just below the right breast of a naked and unnecessarily voluptious specimen (by rumor, the wife of his Manservant), I decided this affection was worth discussing rather less than it was worth pursuing and headed out to the Crimson Unicorn in search of Odyllia.
To my great misfortune, today is apparently their busiest day of the year -- I had no warning of this -- and Odyllia was at the Opera, on the arm of a wealthy young man keen to make jealous an heiress he was wooing. In fact, I was told moments later by Jack as he descended from somewhere above and joined me at my table, every girl in the place was booked the entire night. Shortly thereafter, as I recounted the course of my day to Jack, Sean bounded in, only to be disappointed just as quickly. Our conversation gradually waned, and we drank in somber silence until near ten o'clock, at which time I made my excuses to my companions and departed. They did not look up to see me go.