Weeks passed after that first conversation without my seeing my neighbor again. I even wondered for a while if he'd moved out; I lived a writer's life, up at odd hours of both the day and night, and yet I never caught a glimpse of him or heard him on the landing. I spent those weeks pecking away at the nebulous beginning of a novel, a few unfinished short stories, and a couple of essays that I managed to finish and sell for what amounted to small change. I was still living mostly off my savings – still making the money stretch as much as possible, and still stubbornly rationalizing the cash that went to buy cigarettes.

Hey, everyone's got their vices.

My neighbor finally turned up again in the first week of February – I heard his door open and shut in the early hours of the morning, while I was staring at a stubbornly blank page and debating whether to give up for the night or to head outside for a pause to clear my head.

Maybe it was knowing he was back that decided it for me, but I stood and stretched out the permanent kink in my back and grabbed for my lighter and jacket.

I'd rescued a rickety old kitchen chair from a neighbor's trash bin and carted it up to the balcony; now I settled down onto it and lit up, blowing a smoke ring at the half-moon that hung low in the sky. Even with his return, I expected to have the balcony to myself – it was three a.m., after all – but after a few minutes the door to his apartment creaked open and he let himself out onto the balcony, already in the process of lighting his cigar. He nodded at me and settled himself against the railing, surveying the sleeping block below.

"How's the writing coming, kid?" As if he'd known me all my life, as if he hadn't been MIA for more than a month, and yet somehow the words felt right.

I shrugged. "Slow."

"Writer's block?"

"Uh-huh." I cocked my head to look up at him. "You been on location?"

"Huh?"

"Filming."

"Oh." He chuckled and flicked ashes out into space. "Yeah, y'could say that."

"How'd it go?"

He grinned, and there was something feral in the grin. "Ohh, a little bumpy at first. But then it all came together."

"Glad to hear it."

We fell silent for a while, listening to the traffic noises and watching the wind blow a few clouds across the face of the moon. It was a warm night, for February – warmer than I'd ever pictured a February night being. I glanced sideways at my neighbor, remembering what he'd said about missing the snow.

I crushed out my cigarette butt and stood up. "I'm Chris."

He glanced sideways at me with a slow smile, held out a calloused hand. "John."

I shook his hand, and nodded, and then it was my turn to slip back inside.

TBC