Everything’s louder at 3:48 a.m. The mini-fridge that doubles as your nightstand is definitely working harder than usual to keep that half-eaten brick of extra-sharp cheddar from going bad. A chorus of creaky protest greets your ears as your bare feet pass over the warping floorboards. Having to pee at ass o’clock in the morning is, after all, more criminal than the sweaty lumberjack whose beflannelled hackery made them that way in the first place. Somewhere outside, the rush of a car streaking past your window suggests you’re not the only one having a late night. The bass is cranked so loud on its stereo you can feel it pulsating through the street pavement and up the crumbling bricks of your ancient apartment building. It’s not exactly the kind of music you’d expect to find on the soundtrack of some shitty Victorian romance movie. But it works well with the thump! thump! of your ceiling: Somebody upstairs is getting lucky tonight. Somebody other than you.
"A description of the evening"