Zero-Hour Hit Man
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Venduto e spedito da IBS
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“Oh, yes…” I grumbled as I was plodding along phlegmatically to the first floor landing. “I haven’t found the right rhythm yet, I’m a little rusty”.
The worn-out, yellowed clock above the porter’s lodge indicated it was quarter past eight pm. I hadn’t been home since half past seven in the morning. It was a long day.
“But you all are young…”.
The echo climbed the stairwell and those sharp words reached me even if she couldn’t see me anymore. I didn’t bother to replicate but I smiled as I put the key in the door. Maybe I was too young for old people who cannot stand a two hours line bocce match, but I started becoming old in comparison to young people who can stand a two hours ride on a motorbike on a dirt road.
I closed the door behind me using my foot, I dropped the sport bag in the middle of the hallway and I plunged, still dressed, into the bed. I relaxed just the time to realize I was devastated. An unpleasant concern woke me up. In the dark I heard some steps in the hallway. I extended my hand under the pillow.