I hadn’t expected my new apartment to come with a nightly soundtrack. Thin walls and a neighbor who f****d like it was an Olympic sport weren’t exactly listed in the lease agreement, but from the first night I’d moved in, it had been impossible to ignore.
It started slow and low, deep grunts that carried through the plaster, the kind of masculine sound that vibrated low in my chest even when I pressed a pillow over my ears. Then came the moans, high-pitched and desperate, voices I couldn’t make out clearly but enough to tell there were always more than one, sometimes two, sometimes three, like he had a revolving door of lovers lined up outside his place.
I told myself I hated it. I told myself it was gross, inconsiderate, a reason to complain to the landlord. But when the nights stretche
