You haven't lived till you've loved a writer. Andrew was a giant among men, made even the gods seem small. He took me past the moon, to vivid dreams where the sky ends, then he made the stars dance with the rich cadence of his voice -- deep throaty harps gently strumming as he read me to sleep. He could tell me why he loved me, really why, delectable pages, thick buttery chapters I couldn't put down but even better, he took the word love, and split it like an atom. When we walked together arm in arm (walking turned him on) he sprinkled his magic words everywhere, raised my dead with his once-upon-a-time, stopped my heart to taste splendor as a snail would eat licorice; in this breathless heaven he'd suddenly kiss me, a punctuation mark, a new paragraph, an act of copyright, all warm like his hands and lips and the way he looked at me -- as if bottomless hunger could only be fed by this heroine I longed to be. I told him he was immortal and he laughed at this, a sexy sound from deep in his oceans that tunneled through all my fears, then he turned and flew back toward the moon.