Just over two months ago, I moved into a new apartment in Brooklyn.
By New York City standards, it’s pretty big. It has a backyard and two bathrooms and three bedrooms, two of which are downstairs in a room which is situated right underneath the apartment of our neighbours.
(I don’t really know how that works either, but I’m no architect, so I don’t question the building’s rather odd design features.)
This, my dear friends, is where my problem begins.
Because if I’ve learned anything from the 12 months I’ve been living in this crazy city, it’s this: no matter how nice things seem, something will always be a little bit… off.
I have a big bedroom. And a closet that spans the entire length of one wall. I have my own private bathroom, with a shower that doesn’t also double as a mouldy bathtub (a rare treat).
But I have also heard every single one of my neighbours’ orgasms for nine weeks.
All four of them in a row. At least four times a week.