WINNING

The LOTTO winner—now attired by Saville Row, whose salesman for the month of May had gripped his hand like long-lost kin—treats himself to steak tartare, his former taste buds left with friends he could not remember having, and separated from them by a hurried dash of man’s cream.

In contrast, at a stuccoed home for Vets another scuffer counts his points from slippery Jacks and tens, and, smiling, guides the ample pyramid of matchsticks off the table’s edge and twirls his wheeler past his cheering, aging fan-base to his room.