We stand there in the fluorescent-lit quiet of his apartment, both of us probably wishing this conversation had never started. Except now that it has, I can't find out how to end it.
"Look," I say finally. "I get it. You need to practice, I need to sleep. But there has to be some kind of middle ground."
"I am open to suggestions."
"Soundproofing your place would help both of us."
"As I mentioned, the expense?—"
"What if we split it?"
The words surprise both of us. I can see it in his face, the same shock I'm feeling. Because offering to pay for my noisy neighbor's soundproofing is objectively insane.
But so is living above someone whose voice can literally vibrate my coffee off the table.
"That is... unexpectedly generous."
"It's unexpectedly practical. I can't move either, rent control apartment in this neighborhood is basically mythical. So we're stuck with each other."
"Indeed."
"Besides, if you're going to keep reading my blog, the least you can do is let me sleep."
That almost-smile flickers across his face again, and the bass resonance shifts to something that might be amused? Hard to tell when someone's voice operates on frequencies I can't consciously hear.
"Your most recent post about laundromat etiquette was particularly insightful."
"Oh god. You read that disaster?"
"The section about sock matching protocols seemed quite thorough."
I wrote that post at 3 AM after a woman stole my favorite sweater from the dryer. It was basically a caffeine-fueled rant disguised as helpful advice.
"It was supposed to be funny."
"It was. Very."
Warmth spreads through my chest, and I realize I'm smiling. Actually smiling at my nightmare neighbor in his book pajamas while his voice makes my bones vibrate.
This is either the beginning of a beautiful friendship or the most elaborate setup for a noise complaint escalation in apartment building history.
"So," I say. "Soundproofing."
"Soundproofing," he agrees.
"And maybe designated quiet hours? For emergencies?"
"What constitutes an emergency?"
"Deadline panic. Creative breakthroughs. The rare occasion when I actually manage to fall asleep before midnight."
"Acceptable terms."
We shake on it, his hand engulfs mine completely, warm and calloused like he does manual labor instead of academic work. The bass resonance hums through the contact, and I wonder if this is what earthquake victims feel in those final moments before everything collapses.
Except nothing collapses. We just stand there, shaking hands like civilized neighbors who've reached a reasonable compromise.
Even though nothing about this situation feels reasonable.
