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 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."
The only problem was that Andy loved me.
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