The girl that lived upstairs from me in my apartment building for a year and a half without a problem recently got a boyfriend. And now she was having sex. Bed pounding, mattress creaking, climaxing so loud I had to jump out of bed and hide in the bathroom until it was over, sex. I've never actually met the girl, but if she were in a line-up and all the suspects had to turn to the left and then orgasm, I could pick her out no problem.

Other than the offensive noises, I'm most upset because upstairs girl and I had a routine. We'd both come home clomping in our high heels. And at night we'd both watch "The Daily Show" and "The Colbert Report," on top of each other. Of course I was the only one who could hear what the two of us were doing, but my apartment building has really thin ceilings and wooden floors. So I made due by making jokes. Until now.

Now after the "Colbert Report," CNN goes on and then once the TV is finally off, and upstairs girl joins me in bed, the thumping begins. Putting a pillow over my head doesn't even begin to cut it. It drowns out the moans, but not the pounding.

I knocked on upstairs girl's door after the second consecutive night of the noises. Frankly, I was frightened. Aphrodite and Adnois getting it on, above my ceiling on Mount Olympus, could not become upstairs girl's new routine.

She answered the door. I stood there, awkwardly. "Hey, I'm your downstairs neighbor. I'm sorry to bother you but…"

"The TV's too loud?" She interrupted. Of course it always was – but I had picked my battle.

"No, no, it's …it's the sex. It's really loud. Maybe if you could just move the headboard away from the wall or um…" I tilted my head, peering into the apartment seeing what else she might be able to move around. Upstairs girl closed the door slightly.

"I don't live here," she said.

"O-oh?" I stammered in disbelief.

"Yeah. I'll tell my boyfriend, Luke. He lives here."

"Who is it, honey?" Luke then came to the front door, wrapping his arms around the now newly named, upstairs girlfriend, formerly known as just upstairs girl.

"What's up?" He asked me.

"Don't worry about it," upstairs girlfriend began, as she tried to close the door completely, but I cut in, determined.

"I was just saying, that I heard you last night and the night before, and I just want you to be aware that I am very aware of …your sex."

"Okay…" Luke said flatly.

"You guys are pro's!" I shouted really loudly. Okay, I said it under my breath as I made my way down the stairs and back to my apartment. But I felt relieved that I had said anything at all. And I had learned something: For two years upstairs girlfriend had clomped around in her high heels so often she might as well have just lived there. But they hadn't gotten it on in the bedroom until now. Luke was a tool and upstairs girlfriend was a mooch!

Back on my couch, I flipped on the TV, and thought how not-awesome it would be that night if they fucked even louder just to piss me off. And that's when the upstairs fighting began. The fighting that I heard perfectly because of the thin ceiling and the wooden floor. The fighting that lead to upstairs ex-girlfriend revealing she had fucked another guy while Luke was out of town. The fighting that ended the sex noises.

Now I watch "The Daily Show," and "The Colbert Report" underneath upstairs boy. He's taken to crying a lot. I don't feel right putting the pillow over my head in bed when I hear his sobs though. I don't smile or laugh either. I feel bad. I do! But I also would never go up there and comfort him. Like I said, Luke is a tool.

By Adrienne Sterman