The Drama Downstairs...

As we get further into Spring, the temperatures have been rising in Toronto.

Any time it starts getting above 10 degrees C, I start opening windows and leaving the door to my balcony open in order to get some air circulation and cool air into my apartment.

The fresh air is always nice, but there are definitely some drawbacks to this policy.

My apartment faces Yonge Street and Mel Lastman Square. All the noise from the street and anything going on in the Square seems to funnel directly into my living space when the windows are open -- everything from the sirens of police cars, fire trucks and ambulances racing down Yonge, to whatever Sunday evening summer concert is going on in the outdoor auditorium.

Most of the time I don't mind this. There are the days that drive me up the wall -- the Chinese opera and South Asian music festivals that always seem to have the sound systems turned up to eleven, but I put up with all of that. I like living in a place that has a pulse.

Then, there are the neighbours downstairs.

Since I moved in, there have been a group of guys living downstairs. College students or really recent grads -- early to mid-twenties at the oldest, definitely. During the warmer months, they like to sit on the balcony and talk. Any conversation on any of the balconies on my building tend to carry, at least to the units directly adjoining.

It's not usually too bad. It's not like they sit out there and wax philosophical for hours. The conversations tend to last as long at whatever they're smoking.

Over the last few days, it's been a wee bit different.

One of the guys' relationships seems to be coming to an end. And it's not amicable.

My first clue was when I was sitting on my couch, balcony door wide open, enjoying the fresh air, when the shouting started. It wasn't just the volume that caught my ear -- it was the ridiculous string of expletives. He was using the word 'fuck' as noun, adjective, adverb and verb -- often all in the same sentence. There was a five minute span when he just repeated, "What the fuck?" over and over and over again. Now, being notorious for using a fair amount of blue language myself, it would seem hypocritical of me to complain about this. But this was something else. I was cringing.

That first evening, I had no clue what was going on, but I knew he was pissed.

Over the next couple of days, I had the holes in the story filled in. These were one-sided conversations -- he was on the phone during all of this shouting -- but it was enough for me.

Now, I'm not sure she physically cheated on him, but either she was a complete emotional whore, or he is possibly one of the most possessive, jealous nutbars I've seen this side of daytime talk-show TV.

I had to stop myself from bursting out laughing, after listening him go on a particularly scathing harangue, hearing him scream, "Because I LOVE YOU!!!" Man, I've done some things that I'm not proud of while 'in love', but this was just over the top. This was just another ugly reminder to me that love and obsession go hand-in-hand. With reminders like these, I might just be content never falling in love again.

It was audio voyeurism -- eavesdropping at it's worst. I'm ashamed to say that I would actually mute the television to listen in.

Sometimes I hate myself for having such a fascination with the uglier, train-wreck side of human relationships.