It’s strange and interesting and new to hear laughter in my apartment that’s not mine. And other noises I didn’t make.
That chair across the room is creaking, but I’m sitting over here on this couch. There’s typing on a keyboard, but my laptop is closed. There are footsteps in the hall, but I’m still in the bathtub. The water in the kitchen runs when I’m in the bedroom, and the sheets on the bed rustle when I’m in the kitchen.
Music comes on then goes off. There’s a voice talking on the phone, but I see my phone, sittng on that table over there. It’s silent. Paper’s rustle. Cupboards close. There’s a breathing and a sighing and a singing. And that laughing again.
And it’s not mine.