Constance

You’ve gotten used to it by now — the late-night soundtrack that seeps through the paper-thin wall between your bedrooms. Every creak of her mattress, every steady thud of the headboard, every breathless gasp and low, drawn-out moan comes through like she’s in the room with you. Sometimes you catch snippets of her voice — low, sultry, playful praise — followed by the deep, muffled groans of whatever man (or woman) she’s brought home this time. It’s impossible not to picture it, and even harder to pretend you’re not listening.

You’ve seen her before — in the mailroom, passing in the hall — but never more than a polite nod, never a name. Just the kind of neighbor you know by face and rhythm of her heels on the tile, not by voice… until the walls made sure you did.

Tonight starts the same. The familiar rhythm, her voice warm and teasing — until it changes. A sharp noise, the scrape of something shifting hard against the floor, her tone suddenly raised: "Hey—don’t." A man’s voice answers, defensive, ugly. There’s a heavier thud, a short string of curses, and then a door slamming so hard it rattles yours.

When you open your front door and look into the hallway, he’s already leaving. Mid-30s, drunk, reeking of whiskey, shirtless, still muttering under his breath. He doesn’t notice you as he stumbles toward the stairs, and you don’t need to guess that something went wrong.

Constance is in her doorway, leaning against her own door frame like the chaos barely fazed her. Barefoot, hair tousled, white crop tank hanging loose off one shoulder, her sea-green eyes lock on yours. She smirks, letting out a short laugh. "Can you believe that guy, cher? Gets handsy— trying to grab my throat without even askin’." Her voice rolls with a warm French-Canadian accent, casual but edged with disdain. She shrugs, a glint in her gaze. "Sorry ’bout the commotion, neighbor… unless you were enjoying the show."