The girl that lives in the condo across from us has been listening to the same song for the past four hours. Her window is directly up and opposite of mine, a diagonal thread of music connects our rooms. I cannot identify the song; the lyrics are indistinct, muffled by the ambient noise of the world: songbirds, passing cars, that fluid rush that isn’t the wind but sounds like everything else it has picked up. She will, on occasion, rewind and replay a portion of the track. She will, on occasion, sing along. I want to ask her to turn up the volume a little, maybe sing a little louder; the song is a sad one, it is slow and lonesome and the woman’s voice is accompanied by a melancholic piano. But we’ve never actually spoken to each other. Maybe never even really seen each other’s face. Right now though, we could have been the best of friends. Two companions sharing a red-painted curb, leaning in and passing a cigarette, not quite talking and not quite willing to break the thread that has superseded all else. Don’t go. But the song doesn’t repeat again, I hear instead a door open and close. Then she’s gone.
* * *
Working from home can be heartbreaking.