The apartment is quiet between the hours of 3 pm and 4 pm. That’s when both sisters in the apartment next door nap. But when nap time is over, I hear that familiar click-clack of Flo walking across the kitchen floor, the whine of the fridge door opening, and the rattle of bottles when the fridge is then closed. It took me some time to figure out why her steps sounded like a crow trying to break open a walnut, but eventually, her sister Aggie filled me in, only she didn’t know I was listening; I’ve never met either of the sisters, but these walls are paper-thin.
It was last month. I remember the day because I had the worst hangover of my life, incurred from an evening of debaucherous fun—I’m told—at an open bar wedding the night before. There was a sudden click clack click clack click clack coming from what felt like inside my skull. I was going to yell or bang on the wall—or cry—but then Aggie yelled to her sister, “Would you take those damn tap shoes off! You’re not sixteen anymore!”…
