Weekday, 7pm
The man from the fifth floor came home like he did every evening. He had also been to the gym that day and he felt satisfied with his busy day, so he attacked the stairs of the block of flats athletically. When he got to his door he heard something fall and break. He stopped and for a moment was just afraid.
He had lived alone for a couple of years, since his wife had chosen to live in Andalusia. It all started with a trip, after that his wife talked about nothing else. She missed the sun and the flamenco while he hated the sound of the castanets and the idea of living as a tourist even more so. So, when he saw her leave, for him it was quite a relief. He began to enjoy a well-planned life and to go on organised trips from time to time. Of course, bank holidays were a problem as melancholy set in and after having cursed them unreservedly, he decided to resolve them in front of a film or in a shopping centre, wherever a buzz lifted that weight from him. 
He was afraid, but he had to go in. The first thing that came to mind was the nerve of his wife. She still had the house keys but she had come in like a thief. Or was it a real thief?
The man from the fifth floor felt tired, tired of the day and of the situation. He couldn’t go in, and not because he was scared but because of a terrible tiredness that made him defenceless and passive. So, he settled down on the steps, placed his bag against the wall and leaned on it. He stayed like this for a while with his arms crossed, unable to feel completely comfortable, when he suddenly saw a multi-coloured and minute figure in front of him. The lady, who even made him dinner when she felt like it, smiled when she saw him on the steps, as if she knew she would find him there.
It was strange that he hadn’t thought of her and her frequent eccentricities. Besides, they hardly ever met and that evening she seemed like a stranger.