The New Neighbour – Part 1: The Thin Wall

The wall between the two apartments was thin enough to hear a kettle boil. Simone discovered that on her first night in Brooklyn, lying on a mattress that still smelled of the moving van, when a saxophone started up on the other side at a quarter to six in the morning.

She lay still and listened. It was actually rather good. Then it went on for forty minutes, and she gave up pretending.

By seven she was on the landing in an old dressing gown, with her hair in a towel and a coffee mug in one hand, knocking on the door next to hers.

It opened on a man in a faded band T-shirt, barefoot, with a fringe of dark hair falling into his eyes and a look of mild surprise.

"Morning," he said.

"Is it a saxophone," Simone said, "or is it a cat being sat on?"

He blinked. Then he grinned, slow and unembarrassed. "It's a saxophone. I'm Jay."

"Simone. I'm your new wall."

"My new wall," Jay repeated, with a flicker of amusement. "Do you want to come in? I was just about to make coffee. Better ones than yours, I'm guessing from the mug."

"That is extremely presumptuous."

"Yes," said Jay, and stepped back to let her in.

His flat was the mirror of hers, but it looked lived-in in the way hers didn't yet. There were records in tall crates along one wall, a battered armchair with a blanket over the back, and a saxophone case open on the sofa, its velvet lining dented. A pot of coffee was already bubbling on the stove.

"Sit," Jay said. "Tell me what you want from me, Simone of the thin wall."

"Sunday mornings," she said, sitting. "Please. I work all week. I'd like one lie-in."

"Fair." He poured two mugs. "Then I'll play only in the afternoons."

"Thank you."

"I'll play the sad ones at night, though. They're better with the lights off."

She laughed despite herself. "Are you always this difficult?"

"Only before coffee," Jay said, and passed her a mug. His fingers brushed hers, very briefly, and he didn't look away.

They talked for an hour. She told him about the law firm she had left in Manhattan, and the reason she had left, which she didn't usually tell strangers. He told her about the orchestra he had quit three years ago, and about the sound a saxophone made when you played it badly on purpose at dawn just to annoy the person who lived next door.

"Was that you last week?" Simone asked.

"Possibly."

"You should be ashamed."

"I'm not," said Jay, smiling into his coffee. "You were the one who banged on the wall."

"I didn't bang on the wall. I hummed."

"You hummed very loudly."

She was still laughing when she went back to her own flat. The wall, she noticed, was quieter for the rest of the morning. She found herself listening for him anyway.