I always heard the neighbour upstairs play their Saxophone at exactly 11 am, every Sunday.
Never 11.01, or 11:03.
The songs always started with jazz, and upbeat melodies that made you want to tap your feet and kid yourself that everything was okay.
But at exactly 11:30, the joyful cheery music would stop and there would be a pause for exactly 10 seconds.
I counted every time.
Then, low, long soulful notes would break the silence, and I swear the whole of New York City would stop just to hear the melancholic melodies from this one person in their apartment.
The world would stop for the Sad Saxophone.
At least, that’s what I called it.
My room mates told me that no one ever knew which neighbour it was who played the Saxophone, as everyone on that floor never really left their apartment, so it was hard to play the guessing game and rule out each neighbour.
For a while we thought it was the neighbour directly above us, so one day me and my roommate Tracy knocked on the door after the music had stopped playing.
And knocked again.
We eventually got the idea that no one was coming to the door, so we left and never went back.
So the Sad Saxophone continued to play, and I started waking up earlier so I could make myself a coffee, and lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, the music from the Saxophone became the background music to my thoughts.
The melodies were very similar, and it was only after a month of hearing the Saxophone that I could really differentiate the difference between each melody.
It’s Sunday now, and it’s 11.01.
And I hear nothing.