My new neighbors moved in last week. I’ve seen them a couple times, but other than that, contact has been sparse. As a Chinese person who has consulted his Guide to Proper Ethnic Behavior, I have accordingly holed up and not introduced myself.

What little contact we have established happened because the walls between our bedrooms are so thin, I constantly eavesdrop on them unintentionally. Even as I type this, I’m an unwilling third party in their discussion to determine what to eat for lunch. Seems like salad today for Jill.

Oh, I don’t actually know that her name is Jill, but it seems that if I’m to become an accidental part of their lives, I should at least name them. That was Jill. The other, deeper voice is Jack. I’m sure they’ve given me their own name too. Maybe I’m Bob O’Hara.

I don’t quite know what to think about my new friends. They seem like a nice older couple, often chitchatting about what’s on TV, or what’s going on with their distant relatives. And they seem to either never have sex, or they only do it in the kitchen. I hope I can still be that kinky when I get to their age.