About the Music
There's an art to complaining about your neighbour without ever appearing to complain, and Priya had been rehearsing it on the stairs for a good five minutes before she knocked.
Tom opened the door in socks, holding a mug. “Oh, hiya.”
“Hi. Sorry to bother you.” She smiled the smile that means the opposite of sorry. “I was just wondering, and it's honestly not a big deal, whether the music might be, sort of, carrying a bit? Through the floor?”
“Carrying,” Tom repeated, as though weighing the word.
“Only in the evenings. I probably wouldn't notice at all if I weren't working from home.”
“Right. No, that's… God, I should've thought.” He wasn't going to admit he'd heard her broom knocking the ceiling three nights running. “I can turn it down. Or, you know, headphones.”
“I wouldn't want you sitting there in headphones in your own flat,” Priya said, meaning she absolutely would.
“Honestly, it's no trouble. Maybe I keep the bass off after ten?”
“That would be, if it's not a hassle, that would be lovely.”
“Consider it done.”
They stood there a moment, both slightly pink, having successfully negotiated a compromise about a problem neither of them had been willing to name. She had not said the music was too loud. He had not said she was too sensitive. Somewhere between the hedging and the socks, the thing had simply been resolved.
“Well,” Priya said. “Thanks. Really.”
“Any time. And do just… bang on the ceiling. If it's ever, you know.”
She would never bang on the ceiling again. They both knew that too.