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I
had
been
corresponding
with
a
lady
in
San
Francisco
for
several
months
.
Her
name
was
Liza
Weston
and
she
survived
by
giving
dance
lessons
,
including
ballet
,
in
her
own
studio
.
She
was
32
,
had
been
married
once
,
and
all
her
letters
were
long
and
typed
flawlessly
on
pinkish
paper
.
She
wrote
well
,
with
intelligence
and
with
very
little
exaggeration
.
I
enjoyed
her
letters
and
answered
them
.
Liza
stayed
away
from
literature
,
she
stayed
away
from
the
so
-
called
larger
questions
.
She
wrote
me
about
small
ordinary
happenings
but
described
them
with
insight
and
humor
.
And
so
it
came
about
that
she
wrote
to
say
that
she
was
coming
to
Los
Angeles
to
buy
some
dancing
costumes
and
would
I
like
to
see
her
?
I
told
her
most
certainly
,
and
that
she
could
stay
at
my
place
,
but
due
to
the
difference
in
our
ages
she
would
have
to
sleep
on
the
couch
while
I
slept
in
the
bed
.
I
’
ll
phone
you
when
I
get
in
,
she
wrote
back
.
Three
or
four
days
later
the
phone
rang
.
It
was
Liza
.
"
I
’
m
in
town
,
"
she
said
.
"
Are
you
at
the
airport
?
I
’
ll
pick
you
up
.
"
"
I
’
ll
take
a
cab
in
.
"
"
It
costs
.
"
"
It
’
ll
be
easier
this
way
.
"
"
What
do
you
drink
?
"
"
I
don
’
t
much
.
So
whatever
you
want
.
.
.
"
I
sat
and
waited
for
her
.
I
always
became
uneasy
in
these
situations
.
When
they
actually
arrived
I
almost
didn
’
t
want
them
to
happen
.
Liza
had
mentioned
that
she
was
pretty
but
I
hadn
’
t
seen
any
photographs
.
I
had
once
married
a
woman
,
promised
to
marry
her
sight
unseen
,
through
the
mails
.
She
too
had
written
intelligent
letters
,
but
my
2
-
and
-
one
-
half
years
of
marriage
proved
to
be
a
disaster
.
People
were
usually
much
better
in
their
letters
than
in
reality
.
They
were
much
like
poets
in
this
way
.
