She smiled and said hello, and as I stared at her, smitten, I never dreamed that one day she would be my wife and eventually we’d part but remain friends for life, and now I’m eighty-four and she’s eighty-one and if Chekhov were alive, he’d know what I’m groping for. She was Louise Lasser; the Ls in her name were formed with the tongue, which was immediately sexual. The Ss didn’t hurt, either. She had just dropped out in her final year from Brandeis. She was a blond, beautiful creature, and while years of terrible illness and suffering have taken a great toll on her, you must believe me when I
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