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your celebration arrive at a good and auspicious hour,” he said, as he held my hand with the tips of his fingers.
    Reb Shraga Feivish, an emaciated-looking rabbi with a beard down to his navel, led me into his study. Religious texts were strewn about on every available surface. He opened a large volume on the table and read aloud: One who marries a virgin takes possession of her, and separates from her immediately.
    Reb Shraga Feivish went on to teach me about all the laws that come after “taking possession,” and as the minutes passed, I felt a rising panic. Had he flown right past the obvious? Had I missed a crucial lecture with no one realizing it? I needed the basics, not the laws on what came afterward. I wanted details of the act itself, but Reb Shraga Feivish seemed too absorbed in his stream of instruction, and I was too anxious and too stunned to interrupt him.
    After about twenty minutes, Reb Shraga Feivish closed his book. “When you get home after the wedding, begin preparing right away.”
    “Tonight?” I gasped in alarm.
    “Yes. The mitzvah must be performed before daybreak. It’ll probably be very late when you get home, so don’t waste any time.”
    I hadn’t been expecting this immediacy. I had thought that whatever it was, I would have time to process it all. Reb Shraga Feivish, however, only continued with his instructions. The mitzvah, he said, must be performed twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday nights, after midnight, in total darkness.
    “Have you been to your apartment?” he asked. “Does the bedroom have a heavy window shade?”
    I had been to the apartment but hadn’t thought to check the window shade.
    “Well,” Reb Shraga Feivish said thoughtfully, “don’t worry about it now. If necessary, you can put a quilt over it.”
    Then, at last, he described the mechanics of the sexual act. He used a series of hand gestures, and finally I understood, more or less. Shloimy and Eli had been wrong, I was relieved to learn.
    Reb Shraga Feivish wasn’t finished, though.
    “Before the act itself,” Reb Shraga Feivish said, “lie beside her and chat for a few minutes.”
    “Chat about what?” I asked.
    “It is recommended that one tell tales of the righteous. Only a few minutes are necessary. Until she gets comfortable.”
    “What kinds of tales?” I asked.
    “Doesn’t matter. Any tale about a righteous man. About his fear of God, or his love of his fellow Jews. The usual tales.” He paused to make sure I understood. “Then you get on top, and tell her you love her.”
    “How?” I asked simply, and the question felt stupid on my lips.
    Reb Shraga Feivish paused, as if startled by so direct a question. “Just say, ‘I love you.’”
    The notion of loving my wife had never occurred to me. Marriage was a duty, no more. To pretend otherwise seemed ridiculous.
    “It is the law,” he said with a shrug. “The law says you must tell her you love her.”
    There was no arguing with the law.
    “You must kiss her twice,” he continued. “Once before the act and once during.”
    The “mitzvah,” Reb Shraga Feivish explained, must not be done when in a state of anger. It must not be done during daytime hours. It must not be done when drunk, or after eating, or before using the bathroom. It must not be done if she is brazen (“she must not ask for it explicitly; she may only hint at her desire indirectly”). It must not be done in the presence of sacred books, or in the presence of a child. Most important of all, the mitzvah must be done the way it was done by the great sage Rabbi Eliezer: with awe and with fear, as if forced by a demon.
    By the end of the lesson, I had more questions than answers, but there was no more time. It was four o’clock. The wedding was to begin at six. Reb Shraga Feivish gave me a reassuring look and a warm smile, and then led me to the door and shook my hand. “Mazel tov,” he said. “If there are any problems, call me.”
    Later that evening, I