Aug 26, 2022 4 min read

Someone lives on the other side of the wall we share.

I know this because every Sunday night a trash can appears at the end of the driveway, and every Monday evening it is gone. Other than that, I’ve not seen or heard any sign of life over there, and I’ve been here all summer.

Mine is an end unit of a row of six. From the back patio, I see a vast green valley and the Pittsburgh skyline; to my right, I see a wide, manicured lawn. Looking to my left, I see a partition wall. On the other side of that wall is a life that’s tucked away from my view. The silence coming from there is an odd, blank spot in an otherwise lively neighborhood.

A few times a day Smoothie and I walk to the end of the row to the dog park. We’ll say hello to other dogs and their people; sometimes he and I will sit on the bench and enjoy the hilltop breeze. Since moving here in June, I’ve met some neighbors, including a retired couple across the street who stop to chat when they see me putting my bike on my car rack. There’s a man about my age who walks the neighborhood every morning – fast – and he’ll always say hi as he struts past.

But next door? Crickets. No car in the driveway, nobody padding out to fetch the morning paper, no sounds of dogs or conversation or music.

Maybe this is a matter of good acoustics: thick walls and ceilings that keep life from bleeding through. Once, while reading in bed, I heard a bumping on the other side of the common wall. Another time, while in the jetted tub, I thought I heard the swooshing of water from beyond the bathroom wall. Were my neighbor and I taking a bath at the same time, two naked people separated by tile and drywall? Sitting there in the bubbles, I wondered: if I tapped out a message on the wall, would she tap back?

I say “she” because that’s what I’m picturing. Maybe a woman about my age who works long hours and tucks herself into her home every night, never to emerge again until the next assignment. I imagine her with a little dog, though I’ve never seen or heard any sign of it.

Smoothie is known to fuss, loudly, and it worries me. Last week, when thunder rumbled across that valley, he paced around barking all night, and I was sure he was waking my neighbor. After unsuccessful efforts to quiet him, I took the dog and sat in the car with him until the rumbling passed. Likewise, I worry that Smoothie’s daily 6 a.m. freakout when I make coffee will wake my neighbor, but there’s no stopping that. At least the noise doesn’t last long.

I thought about using my overripe bananas to make banana bread to take next door, but would that even be welcome? What if she (or he, or they) works all night and sleeps during the day? Maybe I could put a note on the door, saying I’m the person who bought the place next door, and would you like to come over for coffee?

And then she could meet Smoothie, who would freak out about the coffee, and my neighbor would say, “So that’s what all the ruckus is about.”

I hope the person over there can’t hear any of our life over here. And I hope to one day lay eyes on her. Not just to see her, but to meet her and to become neighborly.

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.