A woman lies in bed, reading a book. Her downstairs neighbor, Mildred, is masturbating with an oboe. Or she could be sleeping with an oboe player. Maybe using the woodwind to beat her small, skittish dog. Whatever Mildred’s doing, high-pitched squeals and deep, musical groans emanate through the floorboards into the woman’s ears. She thinks about Mildred and the other eclectic tenants in her building. Twelve women—some young, some old, some musicians, some daughters, some lesbians. The woman, a mother to a young son, is boring. She’ll be asleep long before Mildred’s pleasure ceases.