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Description
It's late at night and the heavy bass music is thump-thump-thumping through the wall again. The volume in the neighbors' apartment varies from barely there up to the point where I can sing along with the songs I know and it begins to drown out our TV. There is hardly ever silence.

I sigh and put on my headphones, playing music that is more to my taste in an attempt to distract myself from the anger in the pit of my stomach. I am trying to concentrate on my homework, but it is not something best accompanied by thought-shatteringly loud dance music. I find that I can only work properly late at night. It's the only time I feel creative. It's the only time my thoughts flow like they should, instead of stuttering out on to the page in fits and starts leaving me tense and annoyed. Beyond that, any kind of constant drumming or nearby conversation will immediately draw my attention and eventually turn my thoughts to mush. I want silence. Instead, I am forced to substitute music I like better as a middle ground. It's not ideal. It's still a distraction, but less so. It helps. I can still hear the heavy droning beat from next door. I can feel it. The bass is so strong that it is vibrating through the walls and through my body. It echoes in my chest like an artificial heartbeat. Too fast. Too strong. Earplugs do nothing. White noise machines do nothing. I know; I have tried. It's not a song I am familiar with. I don't listen to the kind of heavy rock and electronica that they seem to prefer. It seems generic—all beat and no melody. I don't like it.

The walls here let sound through as easily as if they were made of cloth. I can hear the people next door cough, sneeze, put down plates, open cans. It's the same with the neighbors on the other side, but their sounds are never excessive. I hear their music, their TV, their conversation, but they respect our right to quiet as we do theirs.

Two wine glasses left to dry on the kitchen counter are gently clinking together with each pulse of the rhythm. Unable to stand this latest intrusion any longer, I pull my headphones off and go to separate them. They are evidence of the friends we had over for dinner last night. They are accompanied by the empty bottle of Moscato D'asti—my husband's favorite. Neither glass was mine. I do not drink alcohol. At times like this, though, I wish I did. A glass or two of wine would help with the stress. I know they drink. I hear them opening cans constantly, and I doubt those cans contain anything as innocent as soda. The two of them get very loud in the evenings. When we walk past their door, there is a strong smell of marijuana from inside. I know complaining to management about that would do nothing, though. Someone else complained—I do not know about whom—and the response was a letter being sent out with a request for smokers to put draft guards under their doors. Tacit permission.

They were quiet when our friends were over, thank goodness. Well, part of me thinks that is a good thing. Another part wishes someone else would hear it, just so that someone would know and tell me that I'm not being unreasonable and that the problem is real and not just all in my head.

Now I am in the kitchen, over by the paper-thin plaster and paint wall that connects our apartments, and I can hear voices. I feel my jaw tighten with frustration, my hands firmly gripping the cool stems of the two offending glasses and holding them apart. We started out with only one neighbor on that side, but he moved his girlfriend in late in the summer. It was sudden, too. She'd never been round before, and suddenly she was living there. I shake my head. Barely together five minutes and already they think they're ready to live together. She even stays in the apartment when he leaves for New York to work on his latest B-movie. Those times used to be our relief from the relentless noise—an oasis of blessed quiet for a whole month or even as long as six weeks. Now we have lost those treasured intervals. Even when he was around, it was never quite as bad when he was on his own. The music, the TV, the conversations have all exploded in volume since she arrived. She seems incapable of holding a conversation without shouting. Her raucous laughter rattles through our apartment at all times of the day and night. She peppers her speech with youthful exclamations of "oh my God" and "like, you have no idea." When they have sex, she is loud and insincere-sounding. I learned his name when it was yelled through the wall in a moment of exaggerated passion. That fact seems depressing. Once, we banged on the wall. They laughed and banged back. I gave up knocking on their door about the music a while ago, when they stopped answering.

She is shouting again, and I roll my eyes. Did no one teach her about using her indoor voice? I am about to go back to the couch and resume my history homework and music when I hear something else.

She is crying.

I pause. She sounds as though she is in great distress.

A little curl of cigarette smoke odor is apparent in the air here. It must be coming through the air vents—sometimes I can smell it in the bathroom, too, right under the grate. My own husband goes outside to smoke because he knows how much I hate the smell, but here it is; another thing I can't escape in my own apartment.
Their music stops. Now I can hear the voices clearly. "Danny, Danny," she is saying—sobbing—"you said you would take care of me. You said you would get me out of here."

Really? That is what this is all about? You want this man to take you away from this place and treat you like a princess because you sleep with him? I know she doesn't have a job. I don't think she leaves the apartment much. I have only caught glimpses of her, but she is young. Perhaps in her early twenties, perhaps younger. She is dark-haired and fragile-looking, and when she does go out she wears knee-high boots and short, short skirts.

Now I hear him, and he is crying too. This startles me. I've never heard it before. I haven't had much to do with Danny, but he is short and rough-looking, with bleached-blond hair. His age is hard to determine. He could be in his late thirties or even forties, or he could be younger, the weathered look evidence of a hard life or drug use. The apartment manager, Sarah, says that he works in the film industry. I always look down when I run into him in the hallway or on the elevator. For some reason—whether it is the noise and the exposure to his private life, or something else—I don't like to meet his eyes. I feel awkward and nervous around him. He seems both sad and threatening at the same time. Right now I can't make out his words. He speaks more quietly, and his lower pitch doesn't travel through the wall as clearly as hers. It sounds as though he is pleading with her.

"I knew that I loved you straight away," she says, not bothering to keep the volume of her voice down. "When you were in New York and I called you that first time, I knew I was in love with you and I knew you didn't love me back."

The murmur of his voice again, protesting.

"Do you still want to marry me, Danny?"

There is no response.

Distaste. She is pulling the you-don't-really-love-me card on someone who is planning on marrying her? Someone who is clearly happy to support her? I am ready and willing to think poorly of her—of both of them. I can picture them both clearly in my mind. In my imagination, they are distant from one another. She stands, facing him, accusing. He sits, perhaps with a beer in his hand, trying to turn away from her. His tone seems evasive, hers direct and forceful. I can picture her face screwed up with anger and tears. I can picture him trying not to look. "You made me do it, Danny," she says.

I still haven't moved since I got up to rearrange the glasses. I feel guilty for eavesdropping on something so personal, but I'm not sure it really counts as eavesdropping when you would have to expend considerable effort not to hear it. I plan out the wording of my latest e-mail of complaint, and wonder if it will ever do any good. They've had half a dozen written warnings and as many phone calls from Sarah, and none of it does any good. Sarah is sweet, but she's very young. She might even be younger than me. She is tall and has dark hair and dresses in wonderfully fashionable clothes. I love going into her office for a chat, but I don't think she's very good at conflict management or coming down firmly on those who need it. Recently she called them about their noise. I heard his side of the phone call through the wall. It was filled with phrases like "don't worry about it" and "you're welcome." Sounds like even at this late stage her contact with them is more apologetic than forceful. Once I was talking to her about the noise problems, and I brought up the inappropriately loud sex. She covered her ears and said she didn't want to hear it. I nodded and said "I know. Neither do I."

I don't know if I will ever be able to get a good night's sleep or be able to concentrate properly on homework here. Ben and I have talked about moving. We don't want to. We like it here, otherwise. We have friends here. But we might have to. Our friend Rachel from four doors down moved out just this week because of her neighbors. She complained about them for months. They were a group of students who would have parties on weeknights. I could hear their music from all the way down the corridor. Strangely, they were evicted just after she left. I asked Sarah about that, and she said she didn't want the next people to live in Rachel's old apartment to have the same complaints. Too late for Rachel. I hope it won't be too late for us.

The girl's voice interrupts the irritated internal composition of my complaint letter. "It was our baby, and you made me do it."

Ben is in bed, somehow managing to be fast asleep, because he can sleep through anything. He used to work nights. I'm all alone with this scene. I realize I don't even know her name.

"I know it wasn't much yet, but I feel like it was our baby. You didn't want it."

He mumbles something defensively.

"I need you to support me, Danny. This is hard—it's so hard." She is crying harder now. It sounds like it is hard for her to talk.

I sit down on the floor with my back against the wall, being careful to keep my movements quiet.

His voice again.

And then hers: "Fuck off!"

I can hear his reply—his voice is raised now, angry. "Fuck you!"

"Fuck off!"

"Fuck you!"

They continue in this vein for a little while. It is childish and would be almost humorous if not for the context. It seems like neither of them wants to be the first to give up.

An almighty crash and a thump startle me from my spot on the floor. I leap up and spin around. It takes me a few seconds to realize what has happened. Breaking glass. He threw something at the wall. A bottle, perhaps. The thump was a picture of my dogs I painted a year ago falling off the wall and landing heavily on the kitchen floor. My heart is racing. I can feel the burst of adrenaline, and I know that I won't be sleeping for a while. I wonder if I should call the police. At what point does something go from argument to domestic incident?

"Oh my God, Danny…" She is shocked, louder, angrier than ever.

And then I hear him move. He walks through the apartment and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

A moment of silence, at last.

She is by herself, crying.

I look at the wall—the few inadequate inches of plaster that make up the only thing separating me from the pain and the failing relationship. It might as well be a thousand miles thick.

Description
It's late at night and the heavy bass music is thump-thump-thumping through the wall again. The volume in the neighbors' apartment varies from barely there up to the point where I can sing along with the songs I know and it begins to drown out our TV. There is hardly ever silence.

I sigh and put on my headphones, playing music that is more to my taste in an attempt to distract myself from the anger in the pit of my stomach. I am trying to concentrate on my homework, but it is not something best accompanied by thought-shatteringly loud dance music. I find that I can only work properly late at night. It's the only time I feel creative. It's the only time my thoughts flow like they should, instead of stuttering out on to the page in fits and starts leaving me tense and annoyed. Beyond that, any kind of constant drumming or nearby conversation will immediately draw my attention and eventually turn my thoughts to mush. I want silence. Instead, I am forced to substitute music I like better as a middle ground. It's not ideal. It's still a distraction, but less so. It helps. I can still hear the heavy droning beat from next door. I can feel it. The bass is so strong that it is vibrating through the walls and through my body. It echoes in my chest like an artificial heartbeat. Too fast. Too strong. Earplugs do nothing. White noise machines do nothing. I know; I have tried. It's not a song I am familiar with. I don't listen to the kind of heavy rock and electronica that they seem to prefer. It seems generic—all beat and no melody. I don't like it.

The walls here let sound through as easily as if they were made of cloth. I can hear the people next door cough, sneeze, put down plates, open cans. It's the same with the neighbors on the other side, but their sounds are never excessive. I hear their music, their TV, their conversation, but they respect our right to quiet as we do theirs.

Two wine glasses left to dry on the kitchen counter are gently clinking together with each pulse of the rhythm. Unable to stand this latest intrusion any longer, I pull my headphones off and go to separate them. They are evidence of the friends we had over for dinner last night. They are accompanied by the empty bottle of Moscato D'asti—my husband's favorite. Neither glass was mine. I do not drink alcohol. At times like this, though, I wish I did. A glass or two of wine would help with the stress. I know they drink. I hear them opening cans constantly, and I doubt those cans contain anything as innocent as soda. The two of them get very loud in the evenings. When we walk past their door, there is a strong smell of marijuana from inside. I know complaining to management about that would do nothing, though. Someone else complained—I do not know about whom—and the response was a letter being sent out with a request for smokers to put draft guards under their doors. Tacit permission.

They were quiet when our friends were over, thank goodness. Well, part of me thinks that is a good thing. Another part wishes someone else would hear it, just so that someone would know and tell me that I'm not being unreasonable and that the problem is real and not just all in my head.

Now I am in the kitchen, over by the paper-thin plaster and paint wall that connects our apartments, and I can hear voices. I feel my jaw tighten with frustration, my hands firmly gripping the cool stems of the two offending glasses and holding them apart. We started out with only one neighbor on that side, but he moved his girlfriend in late in the summer. It was sudden, too. She'd never been round before, and suddenly she was living there. I shake my head. Barely together five minutes and already they think they're ready to live together. She even stays in the apartment when he leaves for New York to work on his latest B-movie. Those times used to be our relief from the relentless noise—an oasis of blessed quiet for a whole month or even as long as six weeks. Now we have lost those treasured intervals. Even when he was around, it was never quite as bad when he was on his own. The music, the TV, the conversations have all exploded in volume since she arrived. She seems incapable of holding a conversation without shouting. Her raucous laughter rattles through our apartment at all times of the day and night. She peppers her speech with youthful exclamations of "oh my God" and "like, you have no idea." When they have sex, she is loud and insincere-sounding. I learned his name when it was yelled through the wall in a moment of exaggerated passion. That fact seems depressing. Once, we banged on the wall. They laughed and banged back. I gave up knocking on their door about the music a while ago, when they stopped answering.

She is shouting again, and I roll my eyes. Did no one teach her about using her indoor voice? I am about to go back to the couch and resume my history homework and music when I hear something else.

She is crying.

I pause. She sounds as though she is in great distress.

A little curl of cigarette smoke odor is apparent in the air here. It must be coming through the air vents—sometimes I can smell it in the bathroom, too, right under the grate. My own husband goes outside to smoke because he knows how much I hate the smell, but here it is; another thing I can't escape in my own apartment.
Their music stops. Now I can hear the voices clearly. "Danny, Danny," she is saying—sobbing—"you said you would take care of me. You said you would get me out of here."

Really? That is what this is all about? You want this man to take you away from this place and treat you like a princess because you sleep with him? I know she doesn't have a job. I don't think she leaves the apartment much. I have only caught glimpses of her, but she is young. Perhaps in her early twenties, perhaps younger. She is dark-haired and fragile-looking, and when she does go out she wears knee-high boots and short, short skirts.

Now I hear him, and he is crying too. This startles me. I've never heard it before. I haven't had much to do with Danny, but he is short and rough-looking, with bleached-blond hair. His age is hard to determine. He could be in his late thirties or even forties, or he could be younger, the weathered look evidence of a hard life or drug use. The apartment manager, Sarah, says that he works in the film industry. I always look down when I run into him in the hallway or on the elevator. For some reason—whether it is the noise and the exposure to his private life, or something else—I don't like to meet his eyes. I feel awkward and nervous around him. He seems both sad and threatening at the same time. Right now I can't make out his words. He speaks more quietly, and his lower pitch doesn't travel through the wall as clearly as hers. It sounds as though he is pleading with her.

"I knew that I loved you straight away," she says, not bothering to keep the volume of her voice down. "When you were in New York and I called you that first time, I knew I was in love with you and I knew you didn't love me back."

The murmur of his voice again, protesting.

"Do you still want to marry me, Danny?"

There is no response.

Distaste. She is pulling the you-don't-really-love-me card on someone who is planning on marrying her? Someone who is clearly happy to support her? I am ready and willing to think poorly of her—of both of them. I can picture them both clearly in my mind. In my imagination, they are distant from one another. She stands, facing him, accusing. He sits, perhaps with a beer in his hand, trying to turn away from her. His tone seems evasive, hers direct and forceful. I can picture her face screwed up with anger and tears. I can picture him trying not to look. "You made me do it, Danny," she says.

I still haven't moved since I got up to rearrange the glasses. I feel guilty for eavesdropping on something so personal, but I'm not sure it really counts as eavesdropping when you would have to expend considerable effort not to hear it. I plan out the wording of my latest e-mail of complaint, and wonder if it will ever do any good. They've had half a dozen written warnings and as many phone calls from Sarah, and none of it does any good. Sarah is sweet, but she's very young. She might even be younger than me. She is tall and has dark hair and dresses in wonderfully fashionable clothes. I love going into her office for a chat, but I don't think she's very good at conflict management or coming down firmly on those who need it. Recently she called them about their noise. I heard his side of the phone call through the wall. It was filled with phrases like "don't worry about it" and "you're welcome." Sounds like even at this late stage her contact with them is more apologetic than forceful. Once I was talking to her about the noise problems, and I brought up the inappropriately loud sex. She covered her ears and said she didn't want to hear it. I nodded and said "I know. Neither do I."

I don't know if I will ever be able to get a good night's sleep or be able to concentrate properly on homework here. Ben and I have talked about moving. We don't want to. We like it here, otherwise. We have friends here. But we might have to. Our friend Rachel from four doors down moved out just this week because of her neighbors. She complained about them for months. They were a group of students who would have parties on weeknights. I could hear their music from all the way down the corridor. Strangely, they were evicted just after she left. I asked Sarah about that, and she said she didn't want the next people to live in Rachel's old apartment to have the same complaints. Too late for Rachel. I hope it won't be too late for us.

The girl's voice interrupts the irritated internal composition of my complaint letter. "It was our baby, and you made me do it."

Ben is in bed, somehow managing to be fast asleep, because he can sleep through anything. He used to work nights. I'm all alone with this scene. I realize I don't even know her name.

"I know it wasn't much yet, but I feel like it was our baby. You didn't want it."

He mumbles something defensively.

"I need you to support me, Danny. This is hard—it's so hard." She is crying harder now. It sounds like it is hard for her to talk.

I sit down on the floor with my back against the wall, being careful to keep my movements quiet.

His voice again.

And then hers: "Fuck off!"

I can hear his reply—his voice is raised now, angry. "Fuck you!"

"Fuck off!"

"Fuck you!"

They continue in this vein for a little while. It is childish and would be almost humorous if not for the context. It seems like neither of them wants to be the first to give up.

An almighty crash and a thump startle me from my spot on the floor. I leap up and spin around. It takes me a few seconds to realize what has happened. Breaking glass. He threw something at the wall. A bottle, perhaps. The thump was a picture of my dogs I painted a year ago falling off the wall and landing heavily on the kitchen floor. My heart is racing. I can feel the burst of adrenaline, and I know that I won't be sleeping for a while. I wonder if I should call the police. At what point does something go from argument to domestic incident?

"Oh my God, Danny…" She is shocked, louder, angrier than ever.

And then I hear him move. He walks through the apartment and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

A moment of silence, at last.

She is by herself, crying.

I look at the wall—the few inadequate inches of plaster that make up the only thing separating me from the pain and the failing relationship. It might as well be a thousand miles thick.