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the only thing worse than to be late to your own wedding is to be late to the wedding of the girl who should have been your wife –
The shutters of the shtetl’s windows were opening to the commotion (curiosity being the only thing the citizens shared).
He had also lost a wife, not to death but to another man.
He had lost so many slips of paper over time, and keys, pens, shirts, glasses, watches, silverware. He had lost a shoe, his favorite opal cufflinks (the Sloucher fringes of his sleeves bloomed unruly), three years away from Trachimbrod, millions of ideas he intended to write down (some of them wholly original, some of them deeply meaningful), his hair, his posture, two parents, two babies, a wife, a fortune in pocket change, more chances than could be counted.
