---------- My shut-in art student neighbor and I got acquainted some time after I became a shut-in myself. One day, I was lying down in bed and listening to music. Playing it at a loud volume without regard for anyone else, there was soon a loud knock on the door. Was it a door-to-door evangelist? A newspaper salesman? I decided to ignore it, but they kept knocking. Annoyed, I cranked the volume up higher, and then the door slammed open. I’d forgotten to lock it. The bespectacled intruder had a somehow familiar face. I supposed she was my neighbor, come to complain about the noise. I prepared myself for her insults, but she just went to the CD player by my bed, took out the CD, switched it for another, and went back to her room without a word. Her qualms weren’t with the volume, but with my taste in music. I pressed play without checking what she’d put in and was met with guitar pop as sweet as orange juice, which was a little disappointing. I’d be hoping she might have recommended me something really good, but alas. So that was my first meeting with the art student. Though I didn’t learn she was an art student until a while later. She and I both hated to go outside, but did go onto our verandas frequently. The difference being that she went to water her plants and I went to smoke, but still, we found ourselves getting closer each time we saw each other. There was nothing obstructing the view between us, so when I saw her, I bowed my head without too much familiarity. I’d greet her, and with a watchful eye on me, she’d return the greeting. Then, one day toward the end of summer, she was out watering her plants, and I leaned on the left railing and spoke to her. “That’s pretty impressive, raising all those plants by yourself.” “Not really,” she mumbled in a barely audible voice. “It’s not hard.” “Can I ask a question?”