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2013-04-20 - 5:05 p.m.

Just now, the sound of the new neighbor guy's voice, the deep concrete bass-ness of it, reminded me of the year we lived in the on-campus apartments. There were four of us. We shared a living room, a little kitchen, and the bathroom. We each had a tiny bedroom big enough for a bed, a dresser, and a desk. I shared a wall with Dave. With the exception of a few late, scattered nights, I was single that year. But Dave wasn't. His girlfriend's name was Gretchen. Where Dave was thin and sleek and dark, she was round and curvy and blond.

Many nights that year, as I lay on my bed, alternating between assigned reading and unassigned reading, between histories and novels, no-fun and deep heartbreaking fun, I listened to Dave's voice, through the wall. I could never make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable. They were soft words, but spoken from the chest, and I only heard them on nights Gretchen stayed over. The slow squeaking of the bed springs--the same kind of bed springs I had in my room--and my friend's slow, chesty words. The lasting image is of me, lying there on that bed, nothing but books on the shelf and dirty clothes in the tiny closet, and of closing my eyes, embarrassed but listening, listening closely, wishing but not wishing I could hear her voice, too.

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