You did not notice him right away the first time he came into his sister’s bedroom. You were swaying on your toes on top of a wobbly folding chair, arched precariously forward, your face thrust into the blackness of the open wardrobe, reaching for a shoebox of paper doll accessories labeled, Head Coverings: Snoods, etc. “I hope I’m not interrupting your girl talk,” Shmuly said—and it was only then that you realized he was there, gazing at you from behind freely and unobstructed, and so you fell from on top of your camel, my child, like Mother Rebecca when she first laid eyes on Father Isaac, you came crashing down on the floor. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you were whimpering in mortification on the carpet as Manika scurried to check you for any visible damage, and then to gather up the contents of the box that had scattered everywhere murmuring, “I’m here to assist you in any way I can”—and Malkie stepped forward to discreetly draw down the hem of the skirt of your school uniform which had ridden up immodestly over your knees as Shmuly stood there with his hand over his mouth to cover up a spasm of wicked laughter—other people falling is always so funny, the stuff of slapstick. His blank gaze was fixed doggedly on the night window against which the rain thrummed, as it is forbidden to look upon a female in disarray, much less touch one not related to you, even a girl of twelve like you, still so pure and innocent—untouchable, like Manika.

You came home earlier than usual that day, but only after first sitting there on that bed sticking it out a little longer for a respectable time span out of pride, your head lowered, your eyes cast down as he recapped for his sister the shiddukh setup date he had just returned from in the lobby of the Taj. In response to one of the questions he routinely asked a prospective bridal candidate—what is the thing about yourself that you would most like to improve?—instead of answering my soul (four points), or my heart (three) or even my mind (two) or my brain (one), she replied, My legs (minus four). “Can you believe it?” Shmuly asked, addressing Malkie. “A grown girl, sixteen and a half, on the marriage market already? Maybe from a twelve year old still with the chubby ankles and baby fat pulkes you would expect such a brilliant answer,” he said, turning at last from Malkie to acknowledge you with a warm smile. “Especially when she goes to the fanciest goyische school money can buy and has such nice pretty eyes.”