It is loud. His voice is coming through walls. Through vents on the floor. Loud talking. Stern warnings. She cries.

Cars down below on Broadway. Police sirens sound. A million tourists shuffle their feet. Talking. Yelling. Drunken behavior. Young men throw up in gutters as girlfriends turn away. They cover their mouths. Lips will not be kissed.

I open my window. High above it all. Ashtray is overflowing. Stale smoke hovers mid-air. And this kid is yelling again at his girlfriend, maybe a wife, perhaps some whore. Her tears continue.

Get out, he says. Leave. Pack your bags. This was a bad idea, he tells her. When will you learn, baby? When?

The door down the hall opens and is slammed. She stands there in the hall with the dangling light fluttering off and on.

Christmas came early this year.