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The wrong floor.
I entered the main door whistling an old tune. I had heard it that morning on the radio, and it had got into my head throughout the entire half day, even though it was a song that I didn't even like. It happens. A light daze due to an alcoholic aperitif, taken in the office with colleagues fifteen minutes before going out, and the thought of the next two days, Saturday and Sunday, away from that wonderful place of delights, caused me a certain euphoria.
I pressed the button to call the elevator, and turned my look to the front door, expecting to see appear the accountant De Blasi, the dear tenant of the upstairs flat.
The coincidence of our hours was something prodigious: it’s true, we both used to leave at the same time, but from two offices at the opposite ends of the city; we both used to plunge, with a few more thousand specimens of our species, in the cheerful and scary traffic of two in the afternoon, where we used to lose an average of ten to fifteen minutes, and invariably we used to find ourselves taking the elevator together, as if we had a tacit and binding daily appointment.
I heard the muffled thud of the oncoming cage, preceded by a slight current of air, and the moan of the doors opening with an explicit sense of hospitality: that was the everyday "welcome home".