Through the Wall

The first thing I learned about Apartment 4B was that whoever lived there owned a blender powerful enough to restructure concrete.

Every morning at seven twelve.

Never seven ten. Never seven fifteen.

Seven twelve.

I had lived in 4A for four days when it started.

The machine ran for twenty-three seconds, stopped, ran again, then stopped permanently.

On the fifth morning I lay in bed staring at the ceiling and said, “Banana.”

The blender started.

“Protein powder.”

It stopped.

“Something green that nobody actually enjoys.”

The second burst began.

I smiled despite myself.

My name is Tom. I was thirty-six, recently moved, newly single and already developing opinions about the breakfast habits of a person I had never met.

The walls were thin enough that you didn’t exactly hear conversations, but you heard evidence of lives.

Cupboards closing. Music. A phone dropped on the floor. Once, at one in the morning, what sounded like an entire drawer of cutlery.

From 4B came the blender, an occasional laugh, a television and someone singing confidently despite possessing almost no relationship with the original melody.

I never complained.

I was in no position to.

My washing machine attempted escape every time it reached the spin cycle.

The first direct communication happened on a Sunday afternoon.

I was assembling a bookcase.

Badly.

After perhaps ten minutes of swearing and dropping pieces of laminated timber, there were three knocks on the wall.

I stopped.

Three more.

I stared at the wall.

“Hello?”

Nothing.

I picked up the Allen key.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I laughed.

“Sorry.”

From the other side came a woman’s voice.

Faint.

“You should be.”

I walked closer to the wall.

“Can you hear me?”

“Unfortunately.”

“That’s troubling.”

“You’ve been arguing with that shelf for twenty minutes.”

“Bookcase.”

“You’re losing.”

I looked at the half-built structure.

“That’s unnecessarily personal.”

She laughed.

I had heard that laugh before without knowing it belonged to anyone in particular.

“I’m Nina,” she said.

“Tom.”

“I know.”

I frowned.

“How?”

“Your food-delivery people yell it in the hallway.”

Fair.

“I know nothing about you.”

“Good.”

“Except blender.”

Silence.

Then:

“You can hear that?”

“Every morning at seven twelve.”

“Oh God.”

“And your singing.”

Longer silence.

“You can’t hear that.”

“I can.”

“No.”

“You’ve been murdering Fleetwood Mac for two weeks.”

The wall went quiet.

I thought perhaps I had offended her.

Then came three slow knocks.

“Delete everything you know about me.”

“I’ll need compensation.”

“Name your price.”

“No blender before eight.”

“Impossible.”

We negotiated it down to seven thirty.

That was how it started.

Not romance. Not lust. Not anything particularly dramatic.

Just two adults talking through a wall because the building had been constructed by people who apparently believed privacy was a passing fad.

Over the following weeks, the wall became useful.

One knock meant hello.

Two meant are you awake?

Three originally meant shut up but gradually lost any fixed definition.

Sometimes we’d speak normally.

Sometimes one of us would sit on the floor close to the wall because it made hearing easier.

We never discussed how ridiculous this was.

I learned Nina was thirty-eight and worked in veterinary pathology.

She learned I wrote technical manuals for companies nobody had heard of.

She hated raisins.

I disliked olives.

Neither fact was useful.

Both somehow mattered.

We passed recommendations through the wall. Television shows. Restaurants. Songs.

Once she knocked twice at midnight.

“You awake?”

“Obviously.”

“Why obviously?”

“Because you’re talking to me.”

“Smartarse.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

Her voice sounded different.

“You okay?”

Silence.

Then:

“Bad date.”

“How bad?”

“He explained cryptocurrency for forty minutes.”

“Jesus.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you need emergency services?”

“Possibly.”

I laughed.

She didn’t.

So I sat against the wall and listened while she told me about a man named Adrian who had apparently used the phrase passive income eleven times over dinner.

Eventually she laughed too.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“Not explaining Bitcoin.”

“Any time.”

The strange thing was that I knew her voice before I properly knew her face.

We had crossed paths once near the mailboxes.

At least I assumed it was her.

Dark hair. Grey coat. Mid-thirties maybe.

We both glanced at each other.

Neither spoke.

Later that night:

“Was that you?”

“Maybe.”

“You could’ve said hello.”

“So could you.”

“I wasn’t sure.”

“Neither was I.”

“Good.”

“Why good?”

“Because otherwise that was very rude.”

The wall made us brave in ways the hallway didn’t.

There were no expressions to interpret. No clothes to notice. No awkwardness about where to put your hands.

Just voice.

Sometimes silence.

We became comfortable with both.

Then one Friday, something changed.

I had friends over.

Nothing wild. Four people, takeaway, too much beer and music louder than I normally played it.

At eleven thirty there were three knocks.

I lowered the volume.

My friend Mark noticed.

“What was that?”

“Neighbour.”

“You communicate through Morse code?”

“Basically.”

“That’s insane.”

“Correct.”

He moved towards the wall.

“Don’t.”

Naturally, that guaranteed he would.

He knocked three times.

Nothing.

Then:

“Tom?”

Nina.

Mark’s eyebrows rose.

I shoved him away.

“Yeah?”

“Your friend is terrible at knocking.”

Mark mouthed, She’s a woman.

I ignored him.

“Sorry.”

“Who’s the idiot?”

Mark looked delighted.

“Mark.”

“Hello, Mark.”

He leaned close.

“Hello, mysterious wall woman.”

I dragged him backwards.

“Leave her alone.”

From next door:

“He sounds annoying.”

“He is.”

“I like her,” Mark said.

Later, after everyone had left, there were two knocks.

I sat against the wall.

“Sorry about that.”

“Why?”

“Mark.”

“He was entertaining.”

“Don’t encourage him.”

Pause.

“Your friends seem nice.”

“They are.”

Another pause.

“You sounded different with them.”

That caught me.

“Different how?”

“Louder.”

“I was drinking.”

“No. Just… less careful.”

I didn’t answer immediately.

“What does careful sound like?”

“You.”

I rested my head against the wall.

“That’s depressing.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“No. You’re probably right.”

The building was quiet.

“I like hearing you laugh,” she said.

It was the first thing either of us had said that couldn’t easily be filed under neighbourly banter.

I looked at the wall as though it might explain what to do.

“You hear that too?”

“Unfortunately.”

I laughed.

She did too.

Then neither of us spoke.

Something had moved.

Only slightly.

But it had moved.

After that I became aware of sounds I had previously ignored.

Her arriving home. The click of her door. Music beginning. The soft scrape of something moving across the floor.

And, more uncomfortably, I became aware that she heard me too.

One evening I had just stepped out of the shower when her voice came through the wall.

“You’re singing.”

I froze.

“I absolutely am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“What song?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

I laughed.

“So we’re even.”

“No. Fleetwood Mac is respectable.”

“I wasn’t singing Fleetwood Mac.”

“Exactly.”

The awareness was strange.

Not invasive.

We both knew the walls were thin.

Neither was secretly listening.

Yet there was something intimate about knowing another person might hear the unedited version of you.

The sigh at the end of a work call. The cupboard slammed harder than necessary. The music played twice.

Then, one night, I heard her crying.

Not loudly.

Barely at all.

I almost said something.

Didn’t.

The wall suddenly felt like a boundary again.

The next morning there was no blender.

Seven thirty passed.

Eight.

I made coffee.

At eight fifteen I knocked once.

No answer.

I went to work.

That evening, two knocks.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah.”

I didn’t believe her.

But she hadn’t invited more.

“Good.”

A minute passed.

“Tom?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for not asking.”

“Any time.”

Another minute.

“And thanks for asking.”

I smiled.

“Any time.”

The first time she came to my door was because of a smoke alarm.

Mine.

I had put bread under the grill and forgotten it.

The alarm screamed.

I opened windows. Waved a tea towel beneath it.

Someone knocked hard.

I opened the door.

Nina stood there in black leggings, socks and an oversized jumper.

So that was her.

Definitely the woman from the mailboxes.

She looked at the smoke.

Then at me.

“You’re shorter than I expected.”

“I’m six foot.”

“I expected more.”

“You look exactly like I expected.”

“That’s disappointing.”

The alarm stopped.

For a second we simply stood facing each other.

Hearing her voice from an actual person felt oddly destabilising.

She seemed to experience the same thing.

“This is weird,” she said.

“Very.”

“Your voice isn’t supposed to have a body.”

“Neither is yours.”

She smiled.

“Do you want coffee?” I asked.

She glanced past me.

“Is anything else on fire?”

“Not currently.”

“Then yes.”

She came in.

For the first five minutes we sat far too formally at the kitchen table.

Then Nina laughed.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Thank God.”

“You’ve told me about your divorce through drywall and now you’re sitting like we’re at a job interview.”

“I didn’t know where else to sit.”

“Floor?”

That broke it.

We talked for almost two hours.

Without the wall, things were different.

Better in some ways.

Harder in others.

Expressions mattered. Eye contact mattered.

When she smiled, I saw it.

When conversation paused, there was nowhere for either of us to disappear.

At eleven she stood.

“I should go.”

“Right.”

Neither of us moved.

The air had that unmistakable quality it sometimes gets when two people have reached a point neither wants to name first.

Nina looked towards the shared wall.

“We’ve done this backwards.”

“How?”

“I know what you sound like when you’re half asleep, but I’ve never had dinner with you.”

“That’s fair.”

“I know when you’re annoyed at work.”

“Thin walls.”

“I know your washing machine is possessed.”

“Also fair.”

She smiled.

“And I know what you sound like when you think nobody can hear you.”

I stopped.

“What exactly does that mean?”

Nina’s smile changed.

“You know.”

I did.

There had been nights.

Not many.

Moments when I had been alone in bed and forgotten how stupidly thin the wall was.

My face heated.

“You heard?”

“Enough.”

“Oh God.”

“Relax.”

“Easy for you to say.”

Nina stepped closer.

“I didn’t mind.”

That shut me up.

She looked at me for another second.

Then kissed me.

There was no polite testing of the idea.

She put one hand on my neck, pulled me down and kissed me like we had already done the awkward part through plaster.

I kissed her back.

She tasted like coffee.

Her body pressed against mine and I felt the exact second she noticed how hard I was.

Nina smiled against my mouth.

“That too,” she said.

“What?”

“I’ve heard you trying to be quiet.”

I groaned.

“This relationship is over.”

“It hasn’t started.”

She kissed me again.

My hands found her waist, then her ass through the thin fabric of her leggings.

Nina pushed against me.

“Bedroom?”

I looked towards the shared wall.

She laughed.

“Seriously?”

“It feels weird.”

“Tom, I live on the other side.”

“Exactly.”

Nina took my hand and led me there.

My bed sat against the wall we had spent weeks talking through.

She looked at it.

Then at me.

“You sleep here?”

“Apparently you know that.”

“I know more than I thought.”

She pulled off her jumper.

No bra underneath.

I stared.

Nina raised an eyebrow.

“You can stop pretending not to.”

That was becoming a theme.

I stepped closer and cupped one breast, thumb brushing her nipple.

She inhaled sharply.

“Better,” she said.

She took my shirt off.

Then my jeans.

I helped her out of the leggings.

For a second we stood there naked, both laughing a little at the sudden ridiculousness of having no wall between us.

Nina reached down and wrapped her hand around my cock.

The laughter disappeared.

“Still strange?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Bad?”

“No.”

She stroked me slowly.

“Good.”

I kissed her.

My hand moved between her thighs.

She was already wet.

Nina’s head dropped against my shoulder when I slid two fingers into her.

“Fuck.”

The word was quiet.

Instinctively quiet.

We both noticed.

Nina started laughing.

“What?”

“We’re still trying not to let the neighbour hear.”

I laughed too.

“Habit.”

She looked at the wall.

Then deliberately said, louder, “That feels fucking good.”

My stomach tightened.

“Nina.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Thought so.”

I pushed her back onto the bed.

She spread her thighs.

I knelt between them and put my mouth on her.

Nina stopped joking.

Her hands gripped the sheet.

I learned quickly that she liked pressure more than teasing and that she was terrible at staying quiet once she stopped trying.

When she came, she pressed one palm flat against the shared wall.

The gesture hit me harder than it should have.

I climbed over her.

She kissed me.

“Condom?”

“Drawer.”

“Of course it’s the drawer beside the wall.”

“Please stop reviewing the architecture.”

She laughed while I put it on.

Then Nina rolled me onto my back.

She straddled me, guided me inside her and lowered herself down.

Both of us went still.

She felt tight and hot around me.

Nina exhaled slowly.

“Okay?”

I asked.

“Very.”

She started riding me.

The headboard tapped the wall.

Once.

Twice.

Nina heard it.

Her smile turned wicked.

“No.”

“What?”

“You’re not stopping that.”

“Nina.”

“I’ve listened to your washing machine for months.”

She moved harder.

The headboard knocked again.

I laughed and grabbed her hips.

“Revenge?”

“Absolutely.”

I thrust up into her.

The laugh left her mouth as a moan.

She leaned forward, palms on my chest, moving faster.

I could hear every sound now without plaster softening it.

Every breath.

Every wet movement.

Every time she said my name.

The wall had made us intimate before touch.

Now it was simply there, taking the rhythm of the bed like evidence.

Nina came first, body tightening around me, her forehead against mine.

I followed a minute later, gripping her hips while she kept moving until I was spent.

Afterwards she collapsed beside me.

For a while neither spoke.

Then three knocks came through the wall.

We both froze.

I stared at Nina.

She stared back.

Another three knocks.

Nina covered her mouth.

“What the fuck?”

I started laughing.

She shoved my shoulder.

“Who is in my apartment?”

We listened.

Nothing.

Then she remembered.

“My washing machine.”

“What?”

“I put it on before I came over.”

We laughed so hard I could barely breathe.

Nina rolled onto her side.

“So,” she said.

“So?”

“Pizza Friday?”

I looked at her naked in my bed.

“I feel like we skipped some steps.”

“Do you want to go backwards?”

“No.”

“Good.”

The next morning, at seven thirty, the blender started.

I was awake.

Nina was asleep beside me.

I stared at the shared wall.

Then reached over her and knocked three times.

From her apartment the blender stopped automatically.

Timer.

Nina opened one eye.

“You trained it.”

“Apparently.”

She kissed my shoulder.

The wall was still there.

We just didn’t need it nearly as much anymore.