The walls in the boarding house were thin, so I could hear every word she said to her guests. Mostly, I didn't have to try. I sat at my own table and listened to the dinner conversations where she talked over her companion. Occasionally I could hear bursts of boisterous laughter, but mostly things seemed very serious and subdued.
If I wanted to hear the whispered goodnights at the door, I had to be more careful. The wooden floors creaked. Several times I had crept closer to my own door, which mirrored hers, and stepped wrong on a board. It would grow quiet next door until I made a big show of walking to the other end of my room.
I learned to shuffle to the door in socks as soon as I heard their conversation wind down. I would lower myself to the floor and stretch out on my back, which was most comfortable to me. From there, I could hear muffled whispers and let my imagination fill in the rest.
After the door closed, I would hear her stack the dinner dishes. Water would run in the sink. Silverware clattered. She choked back sobs.
I wondered more and more about her life. She was always home when I returned from work. She was there when I left in the mornings. I never ran into her out on the street or in the corner store. Though I could only hear her voice, and never that of her guests, I figured they were men. She seemed the type. Always made up, always dressed to the nines, always demurely smiling when we passed in the halls.
Eventually, my imagination couldn't take things any further. I positioned myself at the door when I heard the tone of goodbye enter her voice. I waited until the squeaky doorknob turned, and then I left my own room. I pretended I was leaving in a rush, fumbling with my own lock before glancing at her door.
She stood in the dim doorway, wearing a ratty robe with a towel on her head. Her eyes were widened in shock. I tried to give her a courteous nod, but I was preoccupied with looking for her companion.
She was alone.
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