The glove is wet because the balls he has been throwing have been more slushballs than snowballs, because slushballs as everybody knows fly truer and harder, the only problem being they sog up your woolen gloves with icy wetness […]
Forlorn and loverless as the wild sea, / Long have I lain alone, longing for thee […]
Then the Tulsi Store became a place of deep romance and endless delights, transformed from the austere emporium it was on other days, dark and silent, its shelves crammed with bolts of cloth that gave off acrid and sometimes unpleasant smells, its tables jumbled with cheap scissors and knives and spoons, towers of dusty blue-rimmed enamel plates interleaved with ragged grey paper, and boxes of hairpins, needles, pins and thread.
After the car crash, he became a cabbage.
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