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Friendship

The metal railing of the balcony was making painful indentations from wrist to elbow.

Sammy Brown could have stood from his crouch at any time, but he stayed stooped and watched all of Guillame’s possessions go on the back of a moving truck.

Guillaume’s balcony was right above Sammy’s, recessed slightly in some architectural quirk that allowed them to have face-to-face conversations.

Sammy drank store brand pop and smoked Marlboros, Guillaume sipped coffee from a cup that could have been a ceramic thimble and smoked some European cigarettes that came in a box that looked more like a sample pack of crayons.

Guillaume was moving to the Alabama coast to be closer to his daughter. 

Sammy would miss their conversations about Formula 1 racing, bikini style changes over the decades and the merits of a good grilled cheese, but mostly Sammy knew that he would miss Guillame’s acceptance of his smoking on the balcony.

As Guillaume returned from carrying a bag of loose linens to his car parked in front of the moving truck, Sammy walked up with a going away present: A gift card to a chain of tobacco shops, the kind that always carried French cigarettes.