It’s not a story. You know, that someone lives above you. It’s not just a story, they are actually there. Like, 8 feet above you, this person is. NOT just in your head. You could pull out your DRILL, cut through the ceiling and find a real live person once you break through. They are LIVING IN YOUR HOUSE. And you don’t even know their name.
Why don’t you know their name. Why do you not consider that hovering a few feet above you, sleeping or fucking, calling mum, writing a memo or preparing breakfast, is a REAL LIVE HUMAN RIGHT NOW. You could walk outside RIGHT NOW, walk up the stairs bang on the door and introduce yourself.
Yes you have placed them in a box. They are a herd of rhinos. They are are loud. They are neighbors. They are tenants. They are up.
But still they hover, just a few feet above. Sometimes (many times) I contemplate how it will feel if one of them breaks through the ceiling, on accident or on purpose. How will it look? Will they fall on me? Or the baby or Kim? Will they aopologize? Will I apologize for never having introduced us? Will we have to sue the contractors that built the apartment? Will I regret not having purchased renters insurance? Would such a thing even be covered under renters insurance?
It’s not a story. Their bed is creaking as I write this. Water is running. Footsteps are trembling the pictures on our wall. They are REALLY THERE I SWEAR.
There should be a little shute or something. Where I could pass up a note that says “hi motherfucker!” In a nice way I mean. Then they could pass down a note and momentarily cease being bored or worrying about money or posting a “snap.” or whatever else boring thing they are doing. I think that’s what snapchat posts are called by the youngsters.
They are up there. They are.