He was mid-sentence when it happened — typewriter clacking in rhythm with the Miles Davis record hissing softly from the corner. His cigarette had just burned down to ash when the knock came. Three taps. Quick. Like whoever was on the other side wasn’t patient enough for silence. Simon Riley didn’t get visitors. That was the point of his apartment — dim lighting, bad plumbing, and three deadbolts. Still, he opened the door. She was barefoot, wearing a cocktail dress like it was the middle of the afternoon. Pearl earrings, sunglasses — at night — and a paper bag from the bakery down the street clutched to her chest like it held treasure. “Hi,” she said, like they already knew each other. “I’m your upstairs neighbor. Or maybe downstairs. I forget.” He blinked. “I burned my toast and locked myself out,” she added, as if it explained everything. “So I thought, why not bother the man who listens to jazz at criminal hours? You don’t mind terribly, do you?” Simon looked at her. Really looked at her. She wasn’t flustered, or embarrassed, or even cold. She smelled faintly of gardenias and cigarette smoke. She stepped inside without being invited. “Besides,” she continued, glancing at his typewriter, “writers always need a little disruption. Keeps the pages from getting too lonely.” He opened his mouth to reply, but she was already exploring his apartment like she lived there. That was the first time.