Audrey had the smallest feet on any woman I'd ever seen. They were smooth as alabaster carved into toes of pearls. Her hands were an artist's brush painting words in the air as she spoke with the voice of a flute.

She wanted to know so much about everything she came upon. She'd ask for recipes of dishes she enjoyed in restaurants. She'd want to know how to grow the roses she'd be given in a bouquet. From me she knew my favorite toy--the red plush horse I slept with; every sin I had committed and confessed in the confessional.

Yet I never asked or understood her until she wrote it in a letter.