Every night it is the same navy blue capri pants and purple-ish flowery shirt, the same concerned eyeing of the building's flowers.  Every night it is the same pacing up and down the driveway, which I assume is standard for elderly widows trying to fight off loneliness.  Every night I walk past her when entering or exiting the apartment and say, “evening” in as festive a voice as I can muster.  Every night she replies, “nice night, isn't it?” with a surprising hint of surprise, given that it is always 74 degrees and the colors of sunset eternally nestle around the castle-like Griffith Observatory, just over our shoulders.  Most nights, I say “it sure is” with a vigorous head-nod and as much excitement as I can summon, but every once in while I say, “it's terrible!” with exaggerated fake disdain, and I'm surprisingly surprised when Jackie busts out laughing. 

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