We all dream. Sometimes the dream is bad, sometimes good. In many cases, it depends on what we ate the night before. Lebanese, pizza, or even sushi, which I can’t digest at all. Maybe it’s because of all that rice. Us Italian southerners aren’t used to rice. It’s like soup or tea. Things they give you as a kid when you have a stomachache. So, when we consume them without a therapeutic reason, our body rebels and rejects them as if they were incompatible organs.

Or maybe dreams depend on who we are. Anxious or creative, insecure or deeply uncertain, influenced by our desires, worries, or memories.

Anyway, long story short, the other night, I had a strange one. I had come home exhausted after a never-ending day at work and had flopped down on the couch, with my aqua-green blanket, a gift from a past birthday.

Without realizing it, I closed my eyes and found myself at the condo meeting, sitting in one of those uncomfortable chairs, surrounded by the usual neighbors who always collect proxies from everyone else.

In the front row, Marshal Capuzzo, my next-door neighbor. A taciturn man, retired for as long as I’ve known him. He has a penetrating look that sends shivers down my spine, as if I were a drug dealer. He always seems one step ahead of everyone, as if he knows the deepest secrets of every tenant.

Sitting next to Marshal was Miss Foglia, an elderly lady with a hoarse voice and lively eyes. She carries an aura of wisdom and mystery, as if she’s lived a thousand lives in one existence. Always ready to share anecdotes and gossip about other people’s lives, she turns every meeting into a stage of intrigue and secrets.

Two rows behind, the neighbors from the first floor. A peculiar couple that truly baffles my imagination. From afar, they seem calm and ordinary, but thanks to Capuzzo, we’ve discovered their dark secret.

The rumors circulating in the condo say they were early fascists with a past tied to extremist movements. The most incredible thing is that they grow marijuana on their balcony, in full view of everyone. The lush green plants dancing in the wind seem to be the emblem of their eccentricity.

But that’s not all. The couple also has two massive Rottweilers dogs that bark incessantly and make the walls of the building tremble. They seem perfectly in tune with the chaotic energy surrounding them, as if chaos were their personal signature.

The agenda for the meeting was the renovation of the building, a decision that seemed to have infected everyone except me.

Engineer Boschi, the technician in charge of the work, started describing the technical details with cryptic language full of acronyms and incomprehensible terms.

Then, suddenly, «Twenty thousand euros each for the facade, fifteen hundred for the boiler, and twenty-five hundred for the stairwell windows, » Boschi repeated.

I looked at the other attendees, trying to spot any signs of discontent, but they all seemed captivated by grand visions of a renovated building.

As Boschi continued to speak, my mind wandered among the faces of my neighbors. Capuzzo seemed fascinated by the idea of a modern and secure building, ready to protect residents from all kinds of dangers. Mrs. Foglia, with her curious demeanor, was taking notes as if she were attending a conference on Romance philology. And the first-floor neighbors, with their disdainful looks, seemed completely uninterested in the costs, as if money were no issue for them.

I felt like a stranger in this bizarre comedy, surrounded by characters with such different personalities. I was the representative of the financially challenged, unable to afford such a hefty sum without tax incentives.

At one point, I made a decision. I couldn’t let the dream turn into reality; I couldn’t bear the financial burden of that renovation. So, without hesitation, I woke up. It was as if I had taken flight, an escape from the problems the dream was trying to impose on me.

The next morning, as I left for work, I encountered Miss Foglia in the stairwell. Her penetrating gaze caught me off guard. «You know, we were looking for you at the meeting last night, » she said with a slightly accusing tone. «You disappeared without a word. »

I felt caught red-handed, like a guilty party caught at the scene of the crime. I tried to justify myself, saying it was just a dream, that the money wasn’t real. But she shook her head, as if she wasn’t convinced by my words.

«It doesn’t matter if it was a dream, » she said firmly. «We needed your vote for the renovation. You can’t just evade your responsibilities like that. »

I felt a knot in my stomach. It was as if the dream was still following my footsteps, as if the boundary between reality and unreality was fading even more. And so, I made a decision: that evening, I would sleep at my brother’s house, hoping to escape the demands of dream creditors.

The night passed peacefully. I fell asleep with a sense of relief in my niece’s room, hoping that the bizarre dreams wouldn’t catch up to me. And thankfully, I slept deeply, immersed in a dreamless slumber.

In the morning, I returned home, but my joy was short-lived. As soon as I opened the door, my wife confronted me with a worried look.

«Something happened, » she said. «I had a dream last night. Miss was looking for you. She said something about paying money to the condo. You already know. Are there any issues?»