I knew she loved him when I heard her call him Andy. Not Drew, like everybody else called him, or Andrew, which is the name his parents gave him, but Andy. I wondered if she was in love with his off-beat walk or his insistence on the glory of oil-based pastels, or maybe she was enamored with his blatant wholesomeness, his stark naiveté which glistened off of every wispy blonde hair on his body. "He's so good," she said to me once. "You love him," I whispered back. She thought about what I had said quietly, and then answered, "That's why I call him Andy."
He was staring at her oddly in a way that made his mouth
look like it didn’t belong where it was, but she wasn’t looking back at him,
choosing instead to finger the crevices in between the scales of the porcelain
mermaid’s tail. “Where did you get this?” she asked suddenly, in response to
whatever question he had just posed to her. “You aren’t listening to me,” he
said. “You never listen.” She knew that that was true, but leading ladies never
listened, and she was born to be a leading lady.