She Chose A Quiet Street
The morning lovers lived downstairs, and if she overslept they gently tapped her headboard against the wall. The afternoon lovers crossed her kitchen ceiling to their bed, and she played them space jazz she thought they’d think was sexy, and wouldn’t know. Saturdays she was left no hint, upstairs or down. She woke to sidewalk cafés already full, women in sweatpants at the fruit market. If she visited friends—and she had lots of friends, when she wanted them—she wore her loudest heels, so that anyone upstairs or down could hear what they were missing.
