I'm surrounded by sex. Across the hall, through the vent, up from the floor. Late at night, in the morning, in the afternoon. Women's oohs and ahhs increasing to calls and shrieks; never a gasp from the men, whose deeper voices surely must be dampened by flesh or pillow.

One baby arrived and then the family moved out.

Next, my promiscuous neighbor, who had "hosted" a string of women travelers and friends, says that "they" will have a baby—as if I know which one he means. The next thing you know, there he is, babe in arms and his stereo, finally, thankfully, turned off.

Now the very young single mom one floor down through the vent pats her tummy and adds that she's expecting again too and needs a bigger place.

Who's next?