There was one thing he knew about the two people who lived on the ground floor at number three.
They were never at home when he knocked. He tried to contact them four times over the last five days without success. He was at sixes and sevens about the parcel left at his door by mistake. His friend at number eight reckoned that nine times out of ten they don’t get home until after eleven. At this point he decided to ask around. The woman who lives above him, in apartment twelve, said they run a karaoke club. She’s been to some of their family nights, where children as young as thirteen and fourteen take the microphone and enjoy their fifteen minutes of fame. On the same floor, the man in apartment sixteen said he’d been told about them. They were a surprisingly young pair of music entrepreneurs. One was seventeen and the other was eighteen.
Up on the top floor, in apartment nineteen, there was a twenty-something woman who kept very much to herself. Apparently, she was in the music industry and said to be as odd as a twenty-one-dollar bill. However, seeing that it seemed to be something of a catch twenty-two situation, she suggested, quite sensibly, that he leave the parcel outside their door.
While speaking to her, further along the hallway, the couple from twenty-three came out. He nodded and smiled as they passed. Little did they know that he had applied for that apartment when the place was first built, but they had beaten him to it.
Pity… it was his favourite number.