Open Letter to My Upstairs Neighbor

Dear …. ?

I’m sorry I don’t know your name, but this is New York. Neighbors are nothing more than faceless, nameless forms that occupy the other cubes in our building and occasionally make noises that filter through our walls and interrupt us while we’re doing Important Tasks.

It is noise, in fact, that presents the reason for which I write to you today. Now, let me be clear about something: I am all for an active sex life. Go ahead, girl, get yours if you got yours. But when I can hear every bit of your amorous activity through your floorboards and my ceiling, it becomes an issue.

And what is the DEAL with those bizarre walrus-y cries? At one point you shouted, “Push! Push!” and I thought you were giving birth at home, like some kind of Girls episode, but then you did it again four days later so I had to scratch that hypothesis. “Pushing” isn’t exactly how I would describe my own sexual experiences, but to each her own. I don’t think you’re crying because your noises have a kind of upward cadence to them that seems to climax in a way natural to sex, but it sure does sound like you’re in pain. Hopefully it’s the pleasurable kind. Treat yourself to a nice bubble bath afterwards, yeah? And maybe a cup of chamomile tea.

Anyway, I just thought I’d slip this memo under your door in advance of Valentine’s Day. It’s a holiday for love, for desperation, for couples to get it on and singles to sob alone. It’s a holiday for chocolate and wine in obnoxious quantities. It’s a holiday I have a hunch you will take full advantage of.

So, please. Neighbor to neighbor, I implore you to exhibit some level of restraint this February 14th. Take it easy for a change. Have some mediocre sex, or even some mildly pleasant sex, instead of whatever blend of ecstatic and painful you’ve lately been experimenting with. Your downstairs neighbor will thank you.

Most Sincerely,

Cary Chapman