I live in an apartment farm where the windows in adjacent buildings meet at

uncomfortably even angles. If the shades are all up and the lights are all on, you can see just about everything going on inside.

Sometimes late at night, I'll wake for a glass of water from the sink and notice my neighbor had his kitchen table in the unit across from me.

The man is bolding in middle-aged. He ordinarily wears a cream-colored robe or some faded shade of red. He always has a glass of milk at the

ready, joined occasionally by a fat cigar aimed for the skylight. His hornroom glasses and neat 5 o'clock shadow are about as unremarkable

as any other working Joe this side of New York, New Jersey state line. And yet, something about this guy always intrigued me. We never offer each other

anything more than an awkward wave hello. We never attempt to speak. But some night I'll sit down in the

kitchen too with a glass of my own cold milk and a cigarette snuck from an old pack in

the dresser.

Sometimes when you're feeling lonely, it's nice to see someone else is feeling lonely too.

But one night, last month, my midnight companion gestured for me to join him.

I didn't really know what to do.

The way he was friendly and welcoming.

There was no malice behind it. He didn't look annoyed by my staring.

He just looked like he wanted to talk. I thought about the prospect for a couple of minutes, checked on the baby, kissed my wife

good night, and put on a green-colored robe of my own.

Then I stumbled down the stairs, out the ancient doors and into the shivering cold autumn air.

I found my new friend waiting in the lobby of his adjacent building.

His bespeckled stare sent uncomfortable shivers up my spine.

He waved me forward, past the security guard, and I followed him wordlessly into the elevator. We waited in awkward silence for a moment

before he pressed the button for five, same as mine.

It's cold out there, I muttered, thought it might heat up over the weekend.

...