1:23am.
Two voices raised, then hushed for the neighbours’ sake.
Upstairs in 508 an argument just broke.
But in 30 minutes it’ll be quiet enough for sleep again.
You know.
You’ve heard it all before.
4 loud raps on solid birch doors,
and a bottle hits the floor above with a thud,
having fallen from hands slack with drink.
You’re awake.
Thin walls, thin floors.
Secrets do not thrive here, and nothing is unheard.
A screaming match begins even before he crosses the threshold.
It’s 4:55 am, and you roll out of bed.
You might as well start your day; no one is getting any more sleep.
You know.
You’ve heard it before.
It’s a humid March afternoon,
with the stillness of Sunday.
Two beads of sweat race each other down the back of your neck;
the wind is holding its breath.
At 14:45 a taxi honks down on the street
And after pleas and grovelling,
empty promising with words the whole building now knows by rote,
silence.
There’s no more fight in her.
A car door slams.
The roar of an engine come to life,
and she is gone.
A storm is raging outside, beating against single hung windows.
Blue light from your muted TV pours into your living space, illuminating dark quarters.
You’re stealing away into a dream when—
…giggling.
A woman’s shy laugh.
You sigh.
His lovers are borne of stormy nights,
in the company of thunder claps and lightning that sets the sky alight.
He brings them in from the rain,
his love taking shape in the form of light-footed women
whose laughs are wind chimes in tempered wind.
It’s an hour to midnight, and in apartment 508
another cycle is beginning.
You know.
You’ve heard it all before.
Anneka 