Through the Living Room Wall

Every night around this time, I'm treated to a private concert through my living room wall. I sing along with them, swaying my shoulders to and fro. My eyes flutter shut. I imagine them slow dancing in their living room, a lover's bedtime ritual. Socked feet turn soft circles on the carpet; a threadbare pattern webs around the room. Head rests on a shoulder. Cheek rests on a bed of hair. Arms wrap across torsos, shielding one another from the outside world. Sighs escape lips as bodies release worries of the day. Tension leaks out, inking across the floor, retreating into corners to wait out the nighttime reprieve. Once light breaks, eyes are opened by piercing shrieks from the alarm clock, showers taken, and coffee cups emptied, tension will reattach itself on backs, leaching imperceptibly back into bodies as the hours tick on.

But until then, lungs expand and contract; sounds of contentment break through lips. From my side of the wall, the song fades to a close. My eyes open and my body halts mid-sway, brought back to the reality of my own empty living room. For a brief moment, my ears are flooded with the sound of my own breathing, the overpowering buzz of silence. I hear the creak of ancient floor boards as weight continues to shift from one foot to the other.

Then, without warning, the swell of a new song. The lover's dance continues. It is not yet bedtime. I close my eyes once more, returning to the couple's living room unperceived. I am a voyeur in my own mind's eye, a silent participant. Three strangers bound by one nightly ritual.

From time to time, one neighbour catches the other's eye, on the street corner outside our building, climbing out of the bus after an endless day. I look back knowingly, reveling in our shared secret. They, puzzled. I smile. 'See you tonight.' I say, under breath, with each real life rendez-vous. I am never treated to a response. I blame the bus charging down the street.