152. Crack in the ceiling
© Bruce Goodman 11 March 2014

Thwump! Thwump! Thwump! That damn thwumping sound once again, coming from the apartment above my ceiling. They were at it once more. They were always at it. Thwump! Thwump! Thwump!

The mind boggled at the thought.

Thwump! Thwump! Thwump! She was a lithe, lissome, svelte sylph from Somalia. Highly educated. About late twenties. A lawyer apparently.

Thwump! Thwump! Thwump! He was mid-fifties, white, corpulent, shortish – more than corpulent; he was fat. All the way from the other side of town. How he created such a regular pulsating thwump without having a coronary was anyone’s guess. If it wasn’t for her supple agility it would’ve been impossible.

And the loud music that went with it. It made the Thwump! Thwump! Thwump! seem almost pleasant. It was maddening.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Thwump! Thwump! Thwump!

Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Thwump! Thwump! Thwump!

It would last for about an hour. And then the climax. The noise! The thwumping! The banging! It’s a wonder the building didn’t fall down. They’d already made a crack in the ceiling. That damn couple above, daily dancing their way through Stavinsky’s Rite of Spring.

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