There’s a crack in her wall that let’s in nothing but Nina Simone. The music comes through so quietly you can barely hear it, but it’s always the same. There’s no light, there’s no air, and there’s never any other sound. Nina sings nothing from any of the records I have and it’s never the same song.

The first time she had me over we lay on the floor next to the wall and drank three bottles of wine without ever getting up. The songs just kept coming and so we kept on drinking. We fell asleep as we listened and when we finally woke up the next day she was still singing.

The first time we made love was on a blanket in the corner. The music was so faint that we had to keep completely quiet in order to hear it. I was so sure that she would leave if I ruined the songs that I didn’t make a sound. Our bodies didn’t slap and we didn’t call out each other’s names. We didn’t sigh, moan, or scream and we moved so slowly our bodies were as silent as our voices.

I don’t think either of us really paid attention to the other. It wasn’t out of disregard or even worry of ruining the moment. It was just that it seemed unnecessary. We closed our eyes, entangled our bodies, and let the music guide us in our slow and quiet game until we both forgot where we were.

I can’t tell you if she came, or even if I did. I can’t tell you how it started or ended, but for three weeks we made love in that corner without making a sound. We made love for hours at a time, and while I thought I was falling in love I think I may simply have been in the way. She grew quieter day by day and even at dinner she was silent as if she was hoping to hear a sound. When she kissed me it was so slowly that it almost didn’t feel like a kiss at all.

I didn’t know she left until I saw the craigslist ad. I was looking at apartments when it jumped out at me.

“One bedroom apartment in the East Village. Warm, quiet, and well kept. Must love Nina Simone.”