At 8 p.m., the snow started falling again. By 10 p.m., it was thick and heavy, coating the skylights on the roof below. At 1 a.m., I fell asleep, heavy and tired, and happy that I wouldn't wake up until it was light again.
At 2 a.m., the girl stormed into the apartment above us, slammed the heavy metal door. Screamed at the top of her lungs: "I can't believe you would do this to me! Who do you think you are!" No one answered back. She kept it up, louder and longer. I opened the door to our apartment, wondering if anyone else could hear her in the hall. The sound was muted, thanks to the brick and cement walls of our 1911 building.
Back and forth, clicking her heels she went, faster and louder. Into the bathroom -- more screaming. No carpets up there. Every now and then, I heard a low murmur from the man who is the tenant. No words, just a low sound. On she went until about 4:30. Then a metallic, loud, hard thud against the floor, just above our bed. Waiting for the next salvo. Quiet.
Around 10 a.m., the floor boards creaked. I was convinced there would be drops of blood seeping through the ceiling -- but, no, of course not. Not a sound all day. Not a sound now, 6 p.m. Tonight I have to get some sleep.