Our neighbors smoke. A lot.
It doesn't seep into our apartment, but it makes our entrance hallway smell like a foul ashtray.
We had to do a lot of investigating to find out who the culprits were, but finally found out when I saw Chancie huffing and puffing her way to the metro station with a dog leash in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and when Blake happened to smell the laundry (and the man himself) that Charles was doing in the communal laundry room.
We think they're newly-weds because Chancie's name appeared, scribbled in red pen, under Charles' on their mailbox several weeks after we moved in. And, we think they're just about the oddest couple you could find...brought together, most likely, by their mutual love of tar, nicotine and lung cancer.
She is large (LARGE!), pushy, loud and walks her little dog like she's imitating Elle Woods. He is small, quiet, sullen, and barely walks at all with his crutches.
I've tried (admittedly) to peek into their apartment as I pass by their living room windows. The room is piled high with boxes and debris. Hardly enough room for two grown people and one stunted dog. I often wonder why I never see either one of them sitting there in the living room. Maybe they're out walking the dog, or maybe making the laborious be-crutched trek to the metro...or maybe they're in the hallway again, smoking more years off their lives and ours.