The Porno King key fobs his way into the gym at 3:43 AM. It’s the best amenity in the apartment building and he takes full advantage. He doesn’t know we can hear him. He doesn’t know Lulu says WHAT THE FUCK three times before hurling her pillow at the wall. He doesn’t know we’d drop his nickname if he’d stop the cringefest of moans, groans, and “Ohhhh, shit” and “Goddam” as he drops his weights on rubber mats. Lulu takes a running slide to the door in her lemon-yellow socks. She leans into the peephole and says, “He better be cute.”

Lulu tires quickly and never spots the Porno King. His departure is as stealthy as his grunts are loud. Lulu suggests an ambush in the courtyard; a hands-on-hips confrontation under the hanging succulents. We dismiss this as he will know instantly where we live. We lament the 24-hour gym policy, our ineffective earplugs, our unwise rush to grab the last unit available. We plot over Thai food, argue about halo effects, and the risk of injury if Lulu keeps sliding to the door. We talk about her Mustang, my train pass, the decrease in work productivity, the fading memories of a good night’s sleep. The Porno King knows none of this, yet decides to up the ante, adding “Yea-a-a-a-a-ah!” to the mix. Lulu continues to tire. She staggers to the wall in her parrot socks, flips him the bird and returns to her room. No slide to the door. No last gasp of I CAN HEAR YOU MOTHER-FUCKER. The Porno King somehow senses victory and throws in one more “Yea-a-a-a-a-ah!”

I walk to the door in my bare, flat feet. I assume the position, placing both hands on either side of the peephole, my eye fixed like a magnifying glass. Waiting and waiting and waiting. “Yea-a-a-a-a-ah!” Then a new sound. “U-u-u-u-h.” Then a crash. Then an “A-a-a-a-ah!” Then a “Christ” and a “No-o-o-o.” A moan, a sob, a double-decker “Fuck” and “No-o-o-o.” Lulu slides out of her room, eyes wide. We look at each other, knowing this changes everything.

We key fob our way into the unfamiliar cavern. The Porno King lies on the mat, clutching his right foot. We are so shocked we barely register his massive biceps, the halo of curls, the rapidly blinking brown eyes under bushy eyebrows, the freckles on his nose, the undeveloped calves; his index finger caressing his bleeding toenail. Lulu breaks the spell and offers to call 9-1-1. He says, “No.” Lulu and I argue about who will get ice, who will get bandages, who will grab the right pillow to elevate his foot. We stop in our tracks when he says, “That was so loud. I hope I didn’t bother the people next door.”