{Photograph} by Claudia Ross.
An indication on the dried grass in entrance of my condominium constructing named it the Isles of Appeal, a label that prompt—appropriately—the irony of the advanced’s eventual decay. I moved in on a COVID-era deal, which means I might afford a studio unit in Los Feliz, although solely the type with communal laundry machines that smelled like Tide pods and urine. The partitions have been skinny, and that was how I met my neighbors.
I shared a hallway and one tiled wall with Brian and Luciana. Brian and Luciana stored their door open on a regular basis, to let the wind in. The space between their lives and mine was a door display screen and the stuttering hum of my air conditioner. I heard all the things. They have been older than I used to be, of their mid-thirties or forties. It wasn’t intercourse, although their arguments often appeared to have an erotic fervor.
“I by no means cherished you,” he would scream.
“You’re a garden-variety narcissist,” she would yell again.
They made up rapidly. The morning after a catastrophic meltdown, Luciana would reappear, bouncing down the steps with their neatly trimmed terriers in tow. They each had matching bumper stickers on their Volkswagens that learn WHO RESCUED WHO? with a paw print subsequent to the textual content. He labored freelance in films and purchased good leather-based sneakers. She drank inexperienced juice and spoke lisping Barcelona Spanish on the cellphone. They captivated me. I didn’t perceive them in any respect.
There wasn’t a lot else occurring. It was 2020 and I labored admin for an artist simply south of Los Angeles correct. On the workplace I made batches of dangerous, overly sturdy espresso. I coordinated delivery, additionally badly. All the pieces was at all times held up at customs, which felt telling, a global referendum on my talents. When the bins arrived at their locations, I used to be envious. I imagined myself inside cardboard, headed to Paris or Shanghai.
It was an excellent job—common bonuses, champagne at Christmas—however my boredom felt existential. My neighbors have been extra compelling. At evening I got here residence and lay on the vinyl ground of my studio, my toes touching my fridge, my ear on the doorjamb. Then I waited for Brian and Luciana to start out preventing, and so they did, like clockwork.
Over time, their arguments grew repetitive. There have been extra variations of the phrase “I want I had by no means met you” than I believed potential. It was an indication, I assumed, of an imminent breakup. It couldn’t go on like this. Quickly Brian would transfer out, and I’d purchase HBO, or no matter, to entertain myself after work. I’d end that brief story. Exterior my window, in spring, I’d watch the jacarandas bloom.
As an alternative my landlord reduce the jacarandas down. One March evening I lay on the ground and heard a door open—their door. Luciana advised Brian that it was over. This wasn’t something new.
“I’m finished,” she mentioned.
“I want you,” Brian mentioned.
I heard the 2 phrases repeat as soon as, after which once more, phrase for phrase, inflection for inflection. This was irregular: a precise playback of their dialog. Lastly one other voice got here, interrupting the change. The voice was deeper than Brian’s. I briefly contemplated the concept that they’d a third—that they have been a throuple, a polycule. An thrilling twist within the plot. The opposite man spoke once more, extra clearly.
“Reduce,” he mentioned.
Curious, I staged a visit down the hallway, pretending to verify my mailbox. By way of their display screen door, I noticed them: two monumental desktop computer systems. On every of them was the identical frozen, paused picture of Brian and Luciana, each crying. Beneath the pictures have been modifying timelines, full of clips and audio recordsdata. Brian clicked play. All the true, uncooked confessions of feeling I believed I’d heard—they have been simply dangerous dialogue.
I took a pair extra walks by Brian and Luciana’s condominium within the subsequent months, confirming what I already knew. The demise of their relationship, the one I’d witnessed—or thought I’d witnessed—was truly the tough reduce of the film they have been making collectively. Ultimately I noticed a part of the credit, peeking by way of their display screen, which listed Brian and Luciana as codirectors-writers-actors-producers. Their fights weren’t proof of struggling. They have been part of what everybody in Los Feliz had however me: “a function.”
Listening to them misplaced its Rear Window thrill. I discovered as an alternative in regards to the stunning variety of residence soundproofing choices on Amazon. None of them labored very effectively. I duct-taped foam to the wall above my range and requested Brian, politely after which not so politely, to close their door. I completed the brief story. I nonetheless don’t know what the film was referred to as or if it even got here out, however I don’t have to see it; I already know what occurs.
Claudia Ross is a author from Los Angeles. Her fiction and criticism have appeared in The Baffler, ArtReview, Joyland, Perpetually, and others. She is engaged on a novel about archives, tv, and gynecology.
