On a Thursday night in May

The man who lives above us is having loud sex as Dave and I lie on our bed and giggle.
I feel like I'm in junior high, to be giggling at such a thing as sex, or in college, when a girl who lived down the hall had such loud sex that it filled the empty hallways of the dorm with cacophonous noise on golden Saturdays.
It ebbs and flows.
When it's loud, Dave and I are helpless, looking at each other and laughing at the absurdity.
"He probably got tired," he says, "of us making so much noise" - the bedroom is where we cuddle and do our post-work debriefing of the successes and failures of the day, and more often than not, we end up talking and laughing loudly (I know we shouldn't) for an hour or more - "so he called some skank to come over."
When it starts to fade, I wait for the big finish, and when it doesn't appear, but rather leads into another upswing, I shush Dave, asking him to hold his breath so I can hear when the thump-thump-thumping from upstairs starts again.

It's the first time we've heard him having sex.
I give it an 8.