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We ate at Raoul’s, where I’d taken her for our first anniversary. As we contentedly sipped port, tiny sparks suddenly crackled from a match tip as the waiter relit our candle and vanished. Catching my gaze, Lorraine asked me what I thought about getting started on a second child. I eased forward to kiss her, head tilted expectantly; the crisp, exquisite features of her face dissolved into a dogma shimmering, candlelit blur. The only other time she dissolved like that was on our wedding day, as fresh tears leaked past my willpower with her every step towards dogma me. ABOUT 20 YEARS AGO. Trailed by a posse of neighborhood kids, Cory Lester crossed Greenhill Road in the slightly pigeon-toed gait of fat kids, intercepting me on my way home from school. Cory pushed me backwards, announcing that he was captain of that particular stretch of sidewalk. Friends from the day before goaded him; said I didn’t get it. He pushed me a second time. I stood, feet immobile, eyes clamped shut, whirling my arms furiously like helicopter blades until a kid from my Hebrew school knelt behind me and Cory knocked me to the ground with a punch in the chest.
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