“Oh my God, what is that sound?” Boyfriend asks as we bolt up from the couch, toppling Cat from her perch across our stomachs.

“Jesus! She’s at it again!”

“What??”

“It’s the woman upstairs, screaming at her husband again.”

“The one who woke us up last week?”

“That’s the one.”

“That noise is unholy. She sounds like she’s performing a Satanic ritual.”

I run to the window and poke my head outside. At least three other faces are peering at me, heads cocked as they listen intently to the domestic drama playing out above us.

“Look, she has an audience. Marital problems make a great public spectacle.”

“It is Manhattan. We never hear the husband get a word in edgewise. Does he even exist?” Boyfriend walks out of the living room, hands over his ears. “Hey! You can hear them in the bathroom through the grate!”

I follow him into the other room to hear her banshee screeches echoing from both ends of the 700-square-foot space. “This is nuts, our apartment has become an acoustic hall for this woman’s personal meltdown. I heard her at seven in the morning on Tuesday too.”

“If he does exist, I should buy him a drink. He needs it.”

“I feel like we’re going to hear a crash and a thud, or see one of them come flying past the window.”

We settle back onto the couch, folding loosely around each other, and exchange the knowing and grateful look between couples who have just witnessed someone else’s relationship fiasco.

“It’s sad, you know. I feel bad that this is how she’s spending her mornings and nights. It’s a pretty bleak way to pass the time.”

He shrugs. “Such is life when you’re in a tempestuous relationship.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way.”