"A painter," Adam mused. One dark brow arched in pleasant surprise. "Very cool. I'd been thinking lately, out of all the neighbors I've met, I don't think any of them have been..." He shrugged, taking a moment to weigh his words, unwilling to seem judgmental when his only intent was objective observation. "Creative types. All of us seem to have 'practical' lines of work. Which is fine, don't get me wrong." He shuffled back toward his seat, languidly lowering himself down to the couch's cushions. "But an artist or musician neighbor or two never hurt anybody."
As much as Adam disliked the idea of his neighbor feeling indebted to him - he had done so little, after all, and none of it had put him out to speak of - he did enjoy the thought of a day out with a new, prospective friend. He was curious as to the other man's work, how one made a living in something so intangible. "Lunch, though," he said. "One day we ought to do that. I can pick up my own tab. But it's nice to get out now and then, when my shifts allow it."