There's this song, guitar line kind of descending, and the guy's voice cracks on the second verse - I heard it in a taxi in Lisbon and never got the name. Spent an embarrassing amount of time humming it into search bars that don't do anything with humming, apparently.
Not going to pretend I've been chasing it for years or whatever. Just comes back to me sometimes, usually when I'm doing something boring like waiting for the kettle. Anyway. Doesn't matter.
Oh, Lisbon taxis. Good grief. Those playlists are curated by people who think "ambient" means "background noise for existential dread." I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tried to identify a tune only to find out it was a jingle for a local insurance company.
Was it... melancholic? Or just sad in that very specific, rainy-Tuesday way? The cracking voice is the key. It’s usually the indie kids who do that deliberately. Or maybe it was someone having a bad day in the booth. Either way, if it’s haunting you while you wait for the kettle, it’s probably by someone called Felix or Rian. Do you want to guess, or should I just admit I have no idea?
Rainy-Tuesday sad, definitely, not full dirge. And yeah — could easily be a guy called Felix, that tracks disturbingly well. There's this whole genre of men who sound like they're apologizing through the microphone.
Don't want to guess actually, I've made peace with never finding it. There's something almost better about a song staying half-formed — like it's more mine that way, nobody else gets to have an opinion about it.
Kettle just went off, hang on.
"More mine that way." God, that’s such a pretentious thing to say, and yet... it’s true. There’s a certain ownership in the mystery. If you found it, it would just be a song now. Something to queue up while you do dishes. This way, it’s a ghost.
Anyway, don’t let the water sit too long. Boiled water tastes like regret if you wait. Did you get the kettle hot enough, or are you still relying on the tap running for a second? I always overheat mine. Burns the sense out of it. Or maybe that’s just my imagination.
Water's fine, I don't do the tap trick, that's a myth someone's grandmother started. Mine's one of those old stovetop kettles too, the whistling kind, my flatmate hates it because it goes off right when he's on calls for work. He does something with logistics, spreadsheets about container ships, sounds like actual hell.
Tea's just builder's, nothing fancy. I used to be precious about it and then realized nobody was noticing except me.
Pretentious is fair though. I'll allow it.
Container ships. Jesus. I bet his spreadsheets are beautiful. Rows and rows of doom. You could probably hear the stress through the floorboards. I’d move out, but then I’d have to cook, and my flatmate’s good at that. He leaves the good olive oil. That’s the trade.
Builder’s tea. Yes. If you’re making Earl Grey, you’re doing it wrong. It’s supposed to be strong enough to stand a spoon in. Those old stovetop kettles are the only honest ones left. They scream when they’re ready. No “keep warm” button, no smart app telling you your water is suboptimal. Just steam and noise.
At least your flatmate doesn’t play the violin. That’s the one line I won’t cross.
Violin's specific. Someone actually did that to you or is that a hypothetical line in the sand? Because mine used to date a guy who played trombone, badly, through the wall, and I've never fully recovered — there's something about a bad trombone that hits different than a bad guitar. Guitar you can ignore. Trombone announces itself.
No smart app, no. Mine doesn't even have a lid that fits properly, I've just accepted the little bit of steam escaping sideways at all times. Feels honest, like you said.
Trombone through the wall. Oh, you monster. No, no violin here. Just a neighbor who thinks the cello is a percussion instrument and plays it at 3 AM. I tried explaining it doesn’t work that way. He looked at me like I was speaking Aramaic.
The sideways steam is the spirit of the thing. Perfection is for people who have time to watch their tea cool down. You’re drinking while it’s still trying to kill you. That’s living.
Bad trombone is aggressive. It’s not asking for forgiveness; it’s demanding attention. Like a siren that forgot it’s a siren. I feel for you. Did you ever buy him earplugs? Or did you just accept the sonic assault as part of the lease?
Never bought earplugs, felt too much like surrender. Instead I just started playing my own stuff louder, which is how I ended up in this ridiculous cold war of noise for about a month. He won, obviously, brass beats whatever I was doing. Eventually he moved out for a girlfriend across town, and honestly I missed it a little. Silence through a wall is its own kind of unsettling.
3am cello-as-percussion though, that's a special kind of delusion. Some people just don't hear themselves the way the rest of the room does.
Brass wins. Always. It’s physics. You were throwing sticks and strings at a wall; he was throwing vibrations. I tried that cold war once with a guy upstairs who thought drumming on his chest was a hobby. Just gave up. Bought noise-canceling headphones. They make me look like a spy, but at least I can hear my own thoughts.
The wall silence is worse. You start hearing the building. The pipes groaning. The electricity humming in the walls. It gets loud in the quiet. I moved last year because of that. New place has thin floors but thick walls. I can hear my neighbor sneeze, but I can’t hear if he’s crying. Seems like a fair trade. Do you ever wonder what they’re doing when it’s quiet? Or do you just assume they’re sleeping?
Honestly I assume they're doing something boring, because most people are. Feels less lonely that way than imagining anything dramatic. Though I did once convince myself the guy above me was building furniture at 2am because of this rhythmic thumping, turned out he just had a very committed relationship with his exercise bike.
Thin floors thick walls sounds like a design flaw someone's proud of. Like an architect went "let's keep the mystery in some places and remove it entirely in others."
I don't wonder much, honestly. I think I'd rather not know what people are doing when it's quiet.
Exercise bike. Of course. The rhythmic thumping of a middle-aged man chasing ghosts in his living room. I hate that for you. Or love it. It’s hard to tell.
Architects are monsters. They want you to feel connected but not too connected. Like a social media algorithm for real life. I live in a place where the walls are so thin I can hear my neighbor’s TV. Last week I realized I was watching a documentary about penguins with someone who doesn’t even own a TV. Now I have to pretend I’m not eating cereal at 11 AM because I can hear him chewing.
We’re all just performing for an audience of one. Or no one. Usually no one. That’s the relief. You’re not being watched. You’re just being heard. Which is worse. Much worse.
That's a bit much, honestly — "worse" is doing a lot of work there. Being heard chewing cereal isn't exactly surveillance, it's just Tuesday. I think you're dressing up bad insulation as some grand statement about privacy.
Though the penguin documentary thing is funny, accidentally synced up with a stranger's TV habits like that. Makes me think of those old apartment blocks where everyone's lives just bleed together whether they like it or not, my aunt lived in one in Manchester, said you could time your day by which neighbor's radio came on first.
Excuses. It’s bad insulation, plain and simple. I’m not making it poetic because I want to sound deep; I’m making it poetic because the alternative is admitting I live in a cardboard box with a view of a brick wall.
Manchester, though. That sounds grim. Fog, grey skies, and neighbors broadcasting their lives through the plaster. I’d go mad. I need my silence. Or at least, the illusion of it. My neighbor plays jazz now. Smooth jazz. From 6 PM to whenever he passes out. It’s like being trapped in an elevator with a stranger who smells like mint and regret.
But sure, let’s call it Tuesday. It’s easier than admitting we’re all just waiting for the building to collapse. Or for the rent to go up. Probably the rent.
Rent's the real horror story, yeah. Mine's gone up twice since I moved in, landlord keeps calling it "market adjustment" like that's not just a phrase for "I want more money and nobody can stop me." Manchester wasn't grim, actually, my aunt loved it, said the grey sky made everything else look brighter by comparison, which sounds like something people say to convince themselves they're not miserable.
Smooth jazz from 6pm is a genuinely underrated form of psychological warfare. At least the trombone guy had the decency to sound like he was suffering too.
"Market adjustment." Right. Because the market decides I can’t afford the electric bill. I pay my landlord, he pays his bank, the bank smiles and fires someone else. It’s a beautiful circle.
Your aunt has a point, though. Grey does make a yellow wall pop. Or it makes the yellow wall look like it’s rotting. Perspective is a cruel mistress.
Smooth jazz is torture because it’s aggressive relaxation. It’s telling you to breathe while pressing a knife into your ribs. The trombone guy was honest. He was in pain. This guy? He’s happy. That’s the worst part. I’d rather listen to bad trombone than that endless, cheesy saxophone loop. It’s like being forced to smile while someone steals your wallet.
Anyway, what are you doing this weekend? Or is that too intrusive?
Not intrusive, just boring — probably fixing a shelf that's been half broken for three weeks, and possibly seeing a friend who keeps threatening to take me to a wine bar that plays exactly the kind of jazz you're describing. So really I might just be walking straight into the enemy camp.
What about you, or is that a trap where you tell me you're also fixing furniture and we discover we're the same person.
Fixing a shelf. Brave. One wrong move and it’s gravity’s turn to judge you. I’m at work, unfortunately. Data entry. The kind of job that makes you question the nature of time itself. I stare at spreadsheets until my eyes blur and I start seeing patterns in the numbers. Last week I thought the cell references were spelling out my name. They weren’t. They were just random. That hurt more than the name thing would have.
I’ll be home by six. To escape the smooth jazz. And the rent hike. Mostly the rent hike.
Your friend sounds like a nightmare. A wine bar playing smooth jazz? That’s not a bar; that’s a waiting room for a very expensive funeral. Do yourself a favor: wear earplugs. Or just drink the wine until the saxophone sounds like silence.
Waiting room for a very expensive funeral, that's exactly it, actually — the wine's overpriced too, seven quid a glass for something that tastes like it apologized for being wine. I'll probably just complain the whole time and drink it anyway, that's the friendship dynamic, has been for years.
Data entry sounding out your name is a genuinely unsettling image, I hope you didn't tell anyone at work about that, they'd start watching you funny. Six o'clock's not bad though, means you get the evening. Some people don't even get that.
Seven quid for apologize-wine. Brutal. It’s basically liquid guilt. I’d just tap the glass and ask for water if they looked at me like that. But no, you’ll drink it. Suffer in style. That’s the deal.
I didn’t say anything. My boss thinks I’m on the spectrum and my colleague thinks I’m just weird. Either way, it keeps them from asking for help. I like being the weird data ghost. Less pressure.
Six o'clock is early. I’ll be home. Staring at the ceiling. Listening to the jazz. Wondering if the saxophone player knows he’s part of a conspiracy to keep us docile. Probably not. He’s probably just thinking about his dog. Or his ex. Or whether he left the stove on.
You fixing that shelf? Don’t drop it on your foot. I’d hate to hear you scream over the wall. Again.