She was one of the first roommates I had who I wasn’t attracted to. Not until the time I heard her. Her voice soaking with sounds the wall that separated our bedrooms.

She was my second roomie that summer. First to invite me along with her friends and spend time with mine. That’s how I came to pass my date – a green eyed, lightly complexed complication, onto her.

I was too broken to pay him the right attention. So I told her, “take this one, I just called him by my ex’s name.” I didn’t think twice about it. Maybe a part of me thought she could never land him.

Six years later, I learn she did.

Now it haunts me. No, it’s not that I’m angry. It’s just… from time to time I wonder – was it the three of us getting off together that night? The first time I heard her the sensation of her voice lingered like saxophonic riffs of raw pleasure in the air.

So hypnotic, I was pulled towards it. Entranced, my fingers danced in wetness. My ear pressed to the wall. I heard it all. Standing close to the speakers, the echo chamber of melodies, and hearing their bodies rise and fall brought me more in-tune with mine for the first time since I’d lost it all.

I wonder if it was the three of us together that night, the time I heard her. I wonder how it would have been without the wall.