Written by Mark Wagstaff, edited by Behnam Riahi.
Quickly, I understood what she liked. Sleeping late on a weekend, her slatted blinds closed beyond noon. Red wine—she was diligent, left her bottles out to recycle. She liked sad music and fast music—I charted her moods by sound. Those first times we met out front, she said she enjoyed having someone quiet above her. Which I liked, because she wasn’t quiet—her music erupted all hours, she showered often, for an hour at a time. When she went out, her front door took a slam that shook my windows. She laughed and coughed loud enough to hear upstairs. Where I sat quiet.








