1 fact, 3 fiction
The shouting began at 2am. Dulled cries dragged me into consciousness. They were muffled by the ceiling that protected me from them. I did not need to speak the language to know the emotions.
The intensity of the fight shifted with each move to a different room. The lounge was reserved for anger, a furious tap dance that beat to the rhythm of the accusations.
Mediation took place in the kitchen, the baton tentatively passed back and forth, back and forth. In the bedroom came acceptance; it was silent.
3 facts, 1 fiction
'Did you hear it?' he asked. The look of bewilderment on her face was an invitation for the start of his play recital.
He told her about the furious fight upstairs, that it had gone on for hours. He told her of the shouting, the stamping across the floor.
He told her of the screaming from the window down to the accused in the street like a violent re-enactment of Romeo and Juliet.
She smiled, watching his wild limbs act their part, his exaggerated expressions tell the tale, content to have front row seat to this man's performances every morning.