Last Tuesday, I got home from work, poured myself a glass of wine, put on the latest episode of the Mindy Project, and started painting my nails “Soiree Mauve.”
At some point, I roasted a sweet potato for dinner and poured a few more glasses of wine. I also read the latest issue of Glamour, where it was revealed that Zooey Deschanel wants to be a fucking feminist and wear a fucking peter pan collar (I get that. I feel like we would be friends in real life, but I digress). I was having about the most single night you could imagine.
My night was so filled with single lady activities, I even tweeted a picture of my DIY nail salon, complete with boxed wine and chocolate. My cat won’t pose for pictures, but if I could, I would’ve included her in the shot, too.
At some point, either while I was instagramming my girl’s night in for one, or maybe while I was chair dancing to Fun!, the following note was left on my door:
My boyfriend loves hearing you have sex. Thanks for giving me some pointers!
I discovered the note as I exited for the trash room, pinching the trash bag to avoid smudging my newly lacquered nails. I read the note over a few times before it sunk in. I immediately knew that I was not the intended recipient for this passive-aggressive “thanks.” For one, I am also aware of this couple who has very loud sex at odd times of the day– loud, vocal, athletic sex. I can only assume it is athletic based on the durations and the screams produced – I don’t think that regular ol’ missionary would elicit this kind of Mariah Carey-esque vocal aerobics. I am not at all surprised that this is bothering other people, too. Most of the apartments in my building face into a courtyard, where a slamming door can ricochet noisily up the walls and be heard by everyone. Frequent screeching from lovemaking travels similarly well. Only through experience can I testify that living alone and being forced to listen to someone else have sex is one of the loneliest things that can happen to a person.
The other reason I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the note wasn’t meant for me, that it was impossible that both an unseen neighbor and myself were tormenting the entire building with our lovemaking is that, simply, no one is having sex in my apartment.
The most exciting thing that happens in my bed is when my cat licks my forehead while I stare at the ceiling, pondering my own mortality. The other common activities I partake in in bed are:
- Sleeping for a solid 10-12 hours at a time on the weekends.
- Reading historical non-fiction and deciding that my life isn’t so bad after all, since I am neither a pioneer or a comanche indian on the Texas frontier in 1860.
- Eating chips while staring at my neighbor across the courtyard to see if he ever stares back (he doesn’t).
The one activity that absolutely never happens in my bed is sex. I am about as single as anyone can get. The most exciting thing to happen to me in recent memory happened on Christmas, when my sixteen year old cousin stole my phone in an attempt to act as matchmaker between me and my crush (I stole the phone back, she seemed skeptical when I said that stuff like that generally stops happening after high school).
The more I thought about the note, the angrier I got. I was falsely and anonymously accused by someone who was probably, at that very minute, smugly patting themselves on the back for so cleverly telling me off. It didn’t matter that she probably had no idea who I was, or that the note was never intended for me in the first place. My best guess was that they had failed to properly triangulate the source of the noise from their apartment, aided in their confusion, no doubt, by the echoing courtyard. But then I started to get paranoid: where they listening at my door and mistaking the sounds of my depressed sighs? Where they looking in my window and deducing the occasionally naked run from one side of the room to another to be confirmation of their suspicions?
I was getting livid, but then realized I was limited in my response. One, I had no idea who left the note, and if they even lived on my floor or just walked by my door. So leaving a response on my own door was out.
Two, I would have to refute their claim without sounding super sad. “Nope, wrong room. This place is essentially a nunnery for one.” I would have to find a response that didn’t own up to my not-so-willing celibacy and proof of the note’s misdirection. Finally, I decided to leave a note on our building door with the original note attached that reads:
To whomever left the above note [arrow pointing to the note] on my door, You got the wrong apartment, want to try again?
I scurried to the front door and taped the note up, running away at full speed lest I be seen. The next day, the note remained. Then the next, and the next. Finally, inexplicably, the note was moved next to the door so it wouldn’t flap when the door opened or closed. And there it remains to this day. I am not sure what I expected, but now everytime I enter and exit my building I am left to wonder when will the note ever come down, and by whose hand. I wonder if the note-leaver ever saw it. But mostly, I wonder if the couple who copulates so loudly ever saw it. So far, I haven’t been awoken to sounds of their lovemaking in over a week. Maybe the note had its desired effect after all.