Hummingbird

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When the Connors moved out, I felt like I should have been consulted, or at least warned. I didn’t know them in the traditional sense. We’d never spoken. I’d only gleaned their names from the buzzer outside the front entrance and the occasional piece of stray mail. But we’d been living in adjacent units for three years, and in that time our routines had gradually synchronized. I ate when they ate, slept when they slept, pleasured myself when they pleasured each other, spent so much time with my ear against the wall that my neck had a permanent crick. Our abutting bedrooms gave me intimate access to their lives, and not just their sex lives. From my mattress on the floor, I could hear every word they exchanged in bed—muffled but clear through the flimsy drywall and insulation. Whether they were making weekend plans or squabbling over money or wondering if they’d ever manage to conceive a child, I was listening. When they eventually got pregnant, I was the first to hear the news and raised a glass to the wall. For the first time in my adult life, I was almost happy. I had a book in print. A place of my own. A growing family to vicariously enjoy. From my balcony, I could almost see the ocean. The disorder in the apartment was useful, or familiar at least. I was accustomed to the dishes in the sink and the empty liquor bottles on the counters. I didn’t mind navigating towers of second-hand paperbacks or kicking through piles of old shirts and underwear on my way to the bathroom. It’s true that my place could have been nicer or bigger, but it had the essentials: a sitting room, a galley kitchen, a bedroom, and a four-piece bath.

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