Consequently, I can hear her next door, and her lover, with a crystal-clear clarity.
Their shared roaring guffaws, drowning out the canned laughter of some Seventies sitcom re-run. The crash of shattering glass that accompanies each wine-fuelled argument. Even worse, the bellowing make-up sex that inevitably follows, reverberating in excruciating detail.
Jesus Christ, I miss my ex-wife so much. But it’s obvious that she doesn’t miss me.
I wonder if the sound of sobbing ever bothers them.
Perhaps my screaming will.