Noises

We live in an apartment. An older one, but we love the neighborhood. It’s the kind of place where your daughter can leave her coat at the playground and it’s still there the next day. Not that my daughter will ever do that.

It took me a while to get used to all the noises in our place. The ticks of the water pipes seem to be louder on these cold mornings. We have thick walls, so the neighbors don’t bother us much. And the lady across the hall who was always getting arrested was evicted last year.

We live in the flight path for the Minneapolis-St. Paul Airport. We have become expert lip readers, although I can’t figure out why every time I ask Annie what time we’re eating supper she says, “Sex.” I mean, I know I’m all that, but c’mon, let’s eat first. (And yes, I stole that last bit from Seinfeld.)

We have a cat — George. A royal name, and I think he knows it. He likes to have us watch him eat and has learned to use the toilet. I’m glad he doesn’t like us to watch the latter. He has long white fur that perfectly matches the color of the carpet. He’s gotten much quicker since moving into this apartment.

Our refrigerator is getting old. One of it’s belts is loose, and so it squeals every so often. The sound it makes is almost identical to the little squeaking sounds Ian makes when he’s sleeping.

With all the noises, I’m bracing for that “perfect storm” situation, the day when the fridge squeals at the exact moment a jet passes overhead and I leap to check on Ian only to trip over George, who is blending perfectly with the floor beneath me.

I wonder how George would feel about becoming a brunette?