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I turn and look up at her.
"I'm looking for this," I tell her. I wave my hand at both of us. "I'm looking for you and me, together."
And Audrey only crouches down. She kneels with me and places her hand on mine to make me drop the papers.
"I don't think it's in there." She says it softly. "I think, Ed..." Her hands hold me now gently on my face. The orange light of late afternoon is attached to her. "I think this belongs to us."
It's evening now, and Audrey and I share a coffee with the Doorman on the front porch. He smiles at me when he's finished and falls into his normal gentle sleep by the door. Caffeine doesn't affect him anymore.
Audrey's fingers hold on to mine, the light remains a few moments longer, and I hear the words again from this morning.
If a guy like you can stand up and do what you did, then maybe everyone can. Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.
And that's when I realize.
In a sweet, cruel, beautiful moment of clarity, I smile, watch a crack in the cement, and speak to Audrey and the sleeping Doorman. I tell them what I'm telling you:
I'm not the messenger at all.
I'm the message.
