She lives across the hall. Every night, there’s noises coming from her room. The sound of a television drowning out a male’s voice. An R&B song she sings to. Full on conversations at times with herself.  Banging on walls at three in the morning. A door slamming.

I lie in bed listening. Sometimes, a pot of coffee is made. Cigarettes smoked. She screams out, but the words are mumbled. Ranting incoherently. 

It is cold. I know. She is complaining about it. Loudly. I want so badly to tell her to pipe down. Say to her, I know it’s cold. I know the heat doesn’t work. We’re all getting screwed on this deal. But what’s the point. She will continue to babble.

Yesterday, she left her room. I heard her door shut and watched as she limped downstairs one foot at a time. She is middle-aged, black, and skinny. Her hair is spray painted blonde.

I went to my window to see her meet a man on the sidewalk. Kisses were exchanged, and he followed back inside. He started to talk, and she said shhhh. Quiet now.

I’m not sure what took place in her room, but Otis Redding was singing as the record player popped and scratched. Glasses clanked. And he said, here’s to us. Happy anniversary.