I love my apartment and the little town I now call home. I am deeply satisfied that my friends are so close and we get the chance to chit-chat and laugh so often.
I am enamoured by the local hardware store that gave me six nails for free (I was hanging paintings) because, as the very nice man who helped me said, “Seriously? It’ll cost me more to ring them up than what I’d change.”
I am enchanted by the delicious and decadent concoctions the general store around the corner creates. I mean, Big Mac Pizza? Yum.
What I am not so thrilled with is the low, off-key singing of my neighbor. He (or she – it’s up for debate) sings a nightly concert, without fail, around 8:30 pm. The duration is unpredictable – the constancy is not. Nothing can completely drown out the muffled whale call. Music, movies – all fail.
Is this person chanting? Are they a professional musician? In the shower? Is it some sort of mating call? I’d honestly rather not know the answer.
The strangest part in this mystery is that I hear nothing else from the neighbors. No talking, no loud tv, nothing but the discordant tones of the whale.