I was writing in my diary when there was a knock on my apartment door, thin and raspy, like the cough of a dying opossum. I opened it to find Mrs. Duvenmeyer standing outside on the landing with a plate of raisin cookies, fresh out of the oven. God bless her!

Mrs. Duvenmeyer rents out three rooms on the ground floor. She had ascended three flights of stairs (the last of them steep and less than level) to get to the door to my apartment. I could not thank her enough for having been so kind and generous. She smiled, and nodded, and gestured, and shrugged at all of the appropriate moments. She never opened her mouth. I have only once ever managed to get her to say a single word.

“What is your favorite color?” I had asked her.

“Lavender.”

I was always fascinated by colors.

I did not have the pleasure of meeting the late Mr. Duvenmeyer. I’m told that he was a stern man with a lemon-sucking face and an oddly indented forehead, but I have not so much as seen a photograph to confirm to what extent these descriptions truly applied to his mortal visage.

The cookies were exceptionally warm and soft, and though I tired, I do not feel as if my words adequately expressed my gratitude for her gift. Her gestures indicated that the whole plate was mine to keep, but that she had to be off to take care of other things.

I let her be on her way and returned to my writing.