The building where we live is a haven for single women. Most of them are over the age of 50, and a lot of them know Andy.
When they see me they never remember my name but always ask me about him.
“Where is your husband? I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“I saw Andrew yesterday. His beard is so big.”
“Andrew is such a nice man.”
Our upstairs neighbor, a white-haired Jamaican woman, even hugs him ever time she sees him. Even if she sees him on the sidewalk somewhere.
Although our 97-year-old single neighbor, who is male, does ask after me when he sees Andy. I guess that counts for something.
Everybody just loves Andy.