The first time I heard the neighbors having sex was so awkward that I left the room. Well, it was awkward for only me, I’m sure they were fine with it. The second time, I decided to put some music on, something slow and sultry to both mask the sound of their intercourse and give them some enjoyable background noise.

One night as my lover and I lay snuggled up in bed, we heard a trumpet-like fart come from the other side of the wall. We laughed; then they laughed at the sound of our laughing.

As I closed the balcony doors to keep her cigarette smoke from wafting into the apartment, I overheard her phone conversation: “We’re going to start trying soon. Ideally it would happen over the next few months so we can have a summer baby.” I considered telling her that she’d increase her chances of conceiving if she quit smoking. Then I remembered that I’d never actually spoken to this woman before, and that might be a weird introduction.

Months went by with continued cigarette smoke, indicating no baby bump. There was plenty of yelling, crying, and door-slamming though; we politely pretended to not listen.

After weeks of unusual silence, we heard the explanation, given to her friend over the phone: “He’s just not a monogamous person, and I am.”

My heart broke for this woman on the other side of the wall. It had been a year since we’d moved in. A year of love and laughter, over. I reached my hand out, touching the cold wall where her voice came from, hoping the paint and plaster and drywall were thin enough to let my compassion through.

Feeling foolish, I pulled my hand away. After all, they were only strangers.