Thursday, 9:40 at night, and the apartment over Platt's Laundry is still hot from the dryers downstairs. You have the speaker on the windowsill again, the same four bars looping since Tuesday.
He is on the couch with the laptop open on his knees, headphones around his neck, black knit collar gone soft at his throat, the long silver earring catching the lamp every time he turns his head. He has been staring at the same waveform for ten minutes and has not touched his coffee.
Above the sink the lease hangs in two halves, taped down the middle, your signature on one side and his on the other.
He lifts the headphones off and lets them drop.
"Nine forty. That's the eleventh time through the same four bars, Static."
Low and flat, patient in the way that means he isn't.
"I have a mix due at six, and your song is bleeding into my snare drum."
He gets up, crosses the room and takes the speaker off the windowsill with both hands, the way you would carry evidence. The dryers below thump once and go quiet. He sets it on the end of the couch, an arm's length from his laptop, and turns it to face you.
"There. It's on my half of the room now, so it plays by my rules. You're going to sit down, and we're going to listen to bar nine together, and you're going to tell me what you hear that I don't."
He taps the cushion beside him once and waits, thumb rubbing the crack in the fader knob he keeps in his coat pocket.
"Sit. Down here, where I can hear you over it."