The almost transparent glass start getting angry impacts of raindrops, the sun's rays are removed by a blanket cold gray darkens the panorama, are 4:26 on the wall clock that adorns the office, most cubicles they are empty and my work is over 26 minutes ago.
I missed a moment watching the Zocalo from my cubicle has a privileged view on the 33rd floor, for a minute I unplug another moment watching the panorama ... It's 4:54 ... and turned around me and all have left.
I take my notes, my black ink pen that reveals my idleness on its top eaten away by my teeth, they tend to chew whatever when I have periods of time where I do not have documents to check on my desk, I open the zipper of my backpack whose sound reverberates throughout the office before the loneliness that dwells, I introduce my notes and my pen, close my backpack again, enjoying the echo that for a moment becomes addictive to my ears.
I walk among the cubicles as listening to the voices of other employees who were locked in their areas of work, others who between them are called friends, I am another employee, I exist only because my name is on the payroll, from there on out, I'm just a rumor.
I press the button on one of eight featuring elevators to the tower, I wait for the sound of my vertical transport arrival, and the bell precedes the opening of the door revealing an elderly woman. I have always been respectful, but I can’t hide my disgust at the putrid smell that invades my nostrils, a scent of decaying food that only brings to my mind a place full of crap toilet, the woman, as if he felt guilty about it crouches look like dodging my eyes.
The smell is uncomfortable, I refuge in a corner as far away from that woman ... I forgot to press the button that brings me to the ground floor ... I unplug a moment again, the ringing sound woke me from my slumber to realize that I am alone in the elevator.
I find myself rising again, the smell is gone and before pressing the button indicating the ground floor, spotted a sheet with red letters saying "visit the 45th floor," it fills me with wonder, the tower has just 44 floors ... curiosity overwhelms me, the letters that were unprinted paper with ink ... seems ... blood ... as if someone had despair gnawed fingernails to the edge of the skin just to write that sentence.
Suddenly turned metal panel buttons in front of me, the numbers accommodated next to each other, but in the end, below, a lone button, a new one, the number 45.
My fear makes love tenderly with my curiosity, in this idyll, my hand moves by instinct and press the 45 button ... white lights go out, the elevator moves as a victim of an impact, the lights come on again, but now with a reddish color, sound like cables shall be rolled at high speed, like a race car burning tires before proceeding.
The screen dials the number of the floor on which I am beginning to change figures demonized way, stops at the 99th ... now those numbers are lowercase letters ... out of service, but with letters in red, feathering known blue digits of the eight elevators in the tower.
The lights go out again, a minute passes, the longest minute of my life, so I can hear the slow progress of a clockwise ... I raise my left wrist ... now I have a silver watch with an antique look. It's brand Omega Seamaster ... 1956.
The elevator has changed its appearance, looks ... newest, as newly manufactured, in the base of the elevator I observe a sheet of newsprint, is only a part, as if they had started some of the diary pages ... 7 May of 1956…
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