The guy upstairs makes a lot of noise late at night but he
has cancer and an unsecured wifi network.
I stare at the ceiling listening to him clomp around at one in the
morning and wonder if either of those two things was different – if he was
healthy or password protected – if I would storm upstairs to demand that he
take off the damned clogs for once.
“But he has cancer,” I think when his pacing stops me from
falling asleep. I take my laptop
from the nightstand and peruse the silence of the social networks. All those timelines on pause as the
world sleeps save for me and the sickly shadow above.
I send him a friend request and listen to him plod across
his apartment. He accepts and I
see most of his updates complain about the loud music “from the freeloader
downstairs.”
That wispy little prick.
