It's Sunday morning. My neighbor just had an orgasm.

I'm happy for her, really. Just as I was happy for my Colorado Springs neighbor when she had hers - complete with headboard banging and an impressive array of vocalizations. That was a townhouse with depressingly thin walls - depressing because I owned the place and had no clue until then the construction was so shoddy. (Or that my seemingly demure neighbor was so ... lively.) This is an apartment and yes, the walls are thin, but hey, it's not unexpected.

Still, it's salt in the wound for us partner-less apartment dwellers. Bad enough our solo status means most of us are forced into a housing situation that falls short of ideal. On top of it, the relatively poor quality of our boxy little units allows us uncomfortably easy access to one another's private lives.

Like the couple across the hall. I suppose they make love on occasion, but from what I hear, most of their time is spent making war. I've met these two people. I know their names. I know they have recently relocated here from Seattle. I know she is one of the most gorgeous women I have ever seen. I know he's in some fairly serious legal trouble.

I know this because, a month or so ago, they left. Newspapers piled up around their door. A note from the apartment complex was slipped into the crack of the door. Then another, this one taped to the door. A third, rolled-up and ominously-legal-looking notice was tucked through the hole in the knocker handle.

After a couple of weeks, I was sure they'd skipped town. Snuck away, most certainly under the cover of darkness, without paying rent, stopping their newspaper delivery or paying bills. Surely, that was what the rolled-up piece of paper was all about. Wasn't it?

After a day or two, that notice began calling to me in seductive tones. "Read me," it said. "C'mon, they're gone anyway. You know you want to." I shushed its papery voice.

Two more days worth of papers landed on the already formidable pile. Finally, I gave in. I pulled the notice out of the knocker handle. I unrolled it, and scanned it, quickly. It was a subpoena. I recognized my neighbor's first name. His presence was demanded in court, courtesy of his employer. My face burned with late-rising embarrassment. I rolled it up, slipped it back into the handle and ducked into my apartment, shame on my heels.

Still, I could not bring myself to feel completely guilty. They were not coming back, and this legal dispute surely was the reason. Mystery solved. Besides, once a reporter, always a reporter.

The next morning, every newspaper, notice and scrap of accumulated paper was gone. I heard the unmistakable babble of a television. I heard voices. They were home.

Oops.

So I know more than I should. But what I mostly know is that they argue, often.

All this wafts under my closed apartment door from behind their closed door. Even for the non-curious, it would be hard to ignore. For someone without a sex life, or much of a social life, it's impossible. Still, I do my best - unless the TV selections are truly pathetic. Which is, pretty much always. And then, the way I see it, you might just as well just mute the thing.

Anyway, a snippet from last weekend: First, indistinguishable, angry words from them both. A door opens, with such quick force the knob shrieks in protest. "... makes you happy!" she shouts, her voice thick with tears and rage. The door slams. A grocery bag slaps against the lobby door. Footsteps heavy with anger echo through the stairwell as she descends the three flights to the parking lot.

She's leaving him. Again. Perhaps she goes to friend's house for the night. But she's back the next day. Already, in just the three months during which they've lived across the hall from me, they've established a sad pattern.

I see her the next day, unloading something from the trunk of their car. I smile and wish her good morning, ask how she is without even thinking about it. She blinks at me. Her beautiful face is twisted with sorrow. "Good," she says. But her smile is as weak as the early November sun.

All things considered, I suppose the sounds of my other neighbor should give me hope about the state of relationships. But if I had my druthers, she would have a sex life just like mine. Quiet, and imaginary.

I can't suggest that to her because, well, it'd be sort of rude, and potentially awkward. But even more so because I don't know her. I can tell by her, uh, voice, that she's young. I also know she has a cell phone alarm that jolts her - and sometimes me - to life every morning. That's all I know. After this morning, that's all I want to know.

Unfortunately, I'll now be eying every woman I see in our third floor hallway with suspicion. That woman looks awfully damn happy. She's sort of even glowing - on a bitterly cold, November morning, for God's sake! Could she be the one? Perhaps I'll pose a seemingly innocent, passer-by-variety question, such as, "This weather's amazing, huh?", with the hope that she'll confirm my suspicions by responding, "Oh! Yeah!" just as she did today.

No, never mind. I really don't want to know.

Nevertheless, I now face a dilemma, because if the Colorado Springs experience is any indication, this is just the beginning of my auditory woes. I could move my bed. But the placement of windows and doors throughout the room makes that difficult; there really is only one logical spot for the bed. I could pound on the wall next time and ask her to conduct her recreational activities on the couch. I could buy ear plugs. But I dislike the little wax collectors intensely. Or, I can just take the passive aggressive approach, as I did in Colorado Springs. And hope they break up. Soon.