The Man With No Time

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Horace Chan had pointy little eyebrows like upside-down Vs. If they'd met over his nose, they would have formed a perfect M, and the M would have stood for Maybe. For years I'd been watching Horace make a bet and then hedge it, as reflexively as the rest of us inhale after we exhale, and now I was watching him hedge the biggest bet of his life: the one he'd made when he got married.

This was serious, because Horace was almost my brother-in-law. And even worse: He was one of the very small group of people whom I love. So why was I watching him nuzzle some stranger dressed in a little something that could have been sewn from the cellophane torn from four packs of Marlboros?

“She like you,” Horace's Uncle Lo observed sagely.

Horace snickered. Horace had an unappealing snicker under the best circumstances, and these weren't they. I tried to kick him under the table.

My kick missed and struck Uncle Lo on the shin.

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