I heard the family next door fighting the other night. Loud, deeply upset shouts. A child crying. Mama and Daddy yelling. I couldn’t quite make out what was being said. Anger. Tears.
It’s strange, the way we live. All tucked up in our little boxes. Minding our own beeswax.
Last night seemed to be just an argument from where I stood, probably no more than twenty metres away, in the cold, under the full moon, with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders, peering over my back deck into the darkness between my house and the one beyond. Clearly not minding any beeswax whatsoever.
It’s bad luck, I think. The house next door I mean. The last family that lived in it did a lot of fighting. This family appear to be similar. In actual fact, I thought it was the same family, with all their yelling and crying, until Prince Charming pointed out the mama that lived there when we were up the street. Certainly a different one to the lady that was there a few months ago. I didn’t even see the others leave or these ones move in… Mind you, the block next door has three units on it. The middle unit is the only one that alludes me. I know the lady that lives behind us enough to chat to, the ones on our other side enough to go in for a cup of tea. I know the front and the back units enough to recognise the people and say hello. But that middle unit… Always there, but I don’t see them coming and going very often.
I do hear them sometimes though. In the night. I hope they are ok.