By Larissa Hoppe
Once a week, BZ editor Larissa Hoppe writes about everyday issues that concern her. Today it’s about the virile neighbor again…
From today it applies: This month, then I’ll move out. Farewell to my neighbor. A few final thoughts.
As a reminder: on a few nights, the young man drove me to a moderately big freak out, first with his squeaky bed and then with moaning noises. Some conversations followed. What did they bring?
During the week it was actually quiet from 10 p.m. But then I had the Krakele at the weekend. Is allowed, but still pissed me off.
On top of that, I was so grumpy at times that when it got dark even earlier in the evening, I always looked up at his apartment first when I got home to check whether his light was on and whether he was there. No condition. Neither for me nor for him. He’s hardly there anymore, he said, when he finally found out that I was moving out.
I believe him too. In this respect, my move is a win for everyone involved. I can sleep extensively again and he can slouch at the same time. Although I’m not sure if he intends to do it again in terms of quality. “I reflected a bit about my attitude. For the better,” he wrote to me a few weeks ago.
No Larifari
Since our wine-peace talk on my sofa, we have had a rock-solid neighborly relationship. So solid that we not only talked about potential new tenants, but also about things that are irrelevant to the actual process. For example, that he has new clothes for Berghain and whether I’ve been there before (no, not yet). Or which man he saw me with last time (was my ex).
Now this tender little plant will die. Too bad actually. But: “We separate in peace,” says my neighbor. It’s correct.
And: New apartment, new neighbors. Where is it going? Into the countryside, just before the city limits. I already feel sorry for the poor people, hehe…
