Aria

Three doors down from my room here in Broadway resides a girl who, it seems, has both a considerable sexual appetite and a sizable pair of lungs. I think I've heard her in the throes of ecstasy at least a dozen times in the weeks that I've lived here, and her cries are none too subtle. I can hear her if I'm in the hall; I can here her in my room with the door open; I can even hear her in my room even with the door shut. To give her the privacy that seems appropriate, I've got to be in my room with the door closed and put on some serious tunes ("Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, Pt. 2" works best, but I view it as a compromise).

Her privacy has been kept somewhat intact, however, by her anonymity. I hadn't seen her once the entire month I've live here. Until today. She was coming out of her room, as I was heading out for breakfast, and we exchanged pleasant hellos and the usual. She was tall and athletically-built—generally what I might expect for someone with such volume and endurance—but I must say that her speaking voice sounded very little like I had expected based upon my familiarity with her, shall we say, not-speaking voice.