My favourite days consist of the mix of good company, physical exercise, pleasant conversation and incredible weather. Bonus if I have the next day off. I had exactly one such day last Saturday with my friend Illustrata.
It was a beautiful autumn day and we walked along the river to a fading pink sky followed by dinner in a park. I came home to a satisfyingly empty apartment around 23:00.
Reinvigorated after such a day, I had a smoke on the balcony and decided to finish the bottle of open Prosecco in the fridge. Needless to say it got me pumped and I found myself blasting music from my Marshall amp, dancing and singing around the living room.
I live on the top floor of my building and there is only one apartment per floor. On the floor beneath me live a pack of twenty something year olds (I have yet to figure out how many), who have parties often enough for them not to mind the music. There is a mutual understanding that neither of us complain about volume.
In my dancing queen singing euphoria, I seem to hear traces of scratching and I pause to see if there is a problem with the music. Reassured that all is well, I continue. The sound persists and in my tipsy state I wonder if it’s my voice. I am reminded in this moment of how sometimes I can hear my own breathing when I am sick and often get startled by it. I pause for a second then think, I must have imagined it. A couple of seconds later, I hear it again.
This time I turn off the music, and hear a very light knock. I go to the door and peep through the hole. Sure enough, there is a girl standing there. I am momentarily confused. Is this one of my flatmates coming home late to a closed door? But in that case why don’t I recognise her?
I crack the door open just a bit. Just enough to poke my head through. It’s one of the twenty something year old’s from downstairs.
Her: hey could you please turn down the music?
Me: oh ya sure. I say sheepishly
Her: I mean normally we don’t mind…
Me: no no, no need to explain…
Her: normally we wouldn’t care but we have an exam tomorrow…
Me: no worries, we’ll keep it down. I’m really sorry. I’ll tell the others…
This whole conversation is carried out with the door barely ajar, with me sending furtive glances into the room, as if to say; I am not alone- they are just really quiet.
After she is gone, I close the door and three questions rapid-fire through my head; why did I feel the need to lie to the twenty something year old? How much of my singing, dancing and thumping did she clearly hear? And most importantly, did she buy it?
I imagine, just as I call them the pack of twenty something year olds…
They probably call me the loud kooky thirty something year old.