Still nothing. Same as five minutes ago, same as twenty minutes ago — that door's not opening itself.
Reminds me of the storage room on the third floor at work, the one nobody's had a key to since I started. Someone probably knows what's in there. Not me though.
Anyway. Keep your eyes on it, would you? You blinked during the last bit that mattered, I saw you.
I didn’t blink. I was thinking about the coffee machine in the breakroom. The new one screams when it dispenses. It’s a high-pitched, mechanical shriek that sounds like a tea kettle being murdered. I hate it. I spent twenty minutes staring at it yesterday, waiting for the sound to stop, but it didn’t. Just kept going. Like that door. Or maybe it did. Maybe I missed something. Did you see anything? Or were you just nodding like I do when Karen talks about her cat’s astrology chart? You look bored, Ben. Are you bored? I’m bored. This is dull.
No I saw nothing, same as you, so don't make this about my blinking versus your coffee machine trauma. That's a whole separate incident you're bringing in to cover for yourself.
And I don't nod like that with Karen, I actually leave the room when the cat astrology starts. You just sit there taking it because you're too polite, which is its own problem, but not one we're solving right now.
Bored isn't the word. Vigilant. There's a difference. The door doesn't care if you're entertained, it opens when it opens. Eyes front.
Vigilant. Right. Like a pigeon on a statue. Just waiting for crumbs of meaning. I’m not polite, Ben. I’m just paralyzed by the sheer banality of the breakroom. Karen’s cat, Saturn, is in retrograde. I can’t leave. If I leave, I have to go back to my desk. And my desk is where the spreadsheets live. The ones that don’t open either. That’s the real horror. Not the door. The Excel file that’s been open since Tuesday. It’s just staring at me. Blinking slowly. Like you said I did. So. Are we still watching? Or are we mentally filling out timesheets?
A pigeon on a statue at least gets a crumb eventually. This door's giving us nothing, not even the illusion of progress.
Your spreadsheet's blinking, my inbox has forty-one unread that I've decided are all lies until proven otherwise. Different flavor of the same purgatory. At least yours has a cat conspiracy attached, mine's just Gary from accounting asking about receipts again.
But no — we're not doing timesheets. We committed to this door. Somebody has to actually watch it, that's the whole point, otherwise it's just an unwatched door and those never do anything interesting. Eyes on it. I mean it this time.
Gary. Ugh. I met him once. He smelled like stale crackers and defeat. I transferred to a different department just to avoid the receipt audits. Didn’t help. The universe is consistent. But look. Really look. Is it vibrating? I thought I saw a tremor in the handle. Or maybe that’s just my eye twitching from the Karen incident. You’re staring so hard you’re probably going blind. I’m going to close my eyes for a second. Just a micro-snooze. To reset the vigilance. If it opens, yell. If Gary emails, scream. But mostly, just yell.
No micro-snoozes. That's how people miss things — that's exactly what happened to Frank on the second floor, blinked at the wrong moment and missed the fire drill announcement, wandered around for an hour thinking the building was actually burning.
And no, it's not vibrating. That's your eye, still recovering from Saturn's retrograde or whatever Karen inflicted on you. The handle is a handle. Doors don't tremble, they just sit there being smug.
Keep your eyes open. I'll yell for Gary, I'll yell for the door, I'm not yelling for both at once, that's chaos. Pick a priority system with me later. Right now — look.
Frank? That guy who wears the name tag wrong? Probably just drank too much cheap coffee. Anyway, I’m looking. Staring. My eyes feel like they’re being sandblasted. If this door opens, I’m going to be furious. Not happy. Furious. Because it means I have to stand up. And my legs have forgotten how. They’re basically decorative at this point. Like that statue. Anyway, did you hear that? A scratch? Or is it just the building settling? Please tell me it’s the building settling. I hate surprises. They usually involve paperwork. Or Gary. Definitely Gary.
That's the same name tag, wrong every single day, like he's making a statement or he genuinely doesn't know his own name. Either way it's unsettling.
I didn't hear a scratch. Building's just old, it does that groan around this time, pipes or whatever, nobody's ever explained it and I've stopped asking. It's not the door. The door is doing exactly what it's been doing since we started, which is nothing, spectacularly.
Your legs being decorative is honestly the most concerning part of this conversation. Wiggle a toe or something. Preventative measure. I'm not carrying you if this actually opens.
My toe wiggled. There. Satisfied? It’s a small victory. The door remains smug. Frank’s tag is still crooked in my head. I can see it. Like a glitch in a video game. Maybe we are the glitch. Or maybe we’re just waiting for the update. The pipes groaned again. Louder. Or maybe that was my stomach. I haven’t eaten since… well, since before. Time is fluid here. Like the door handle. Do you think if we stare hard enough, it’ll melt? No? Okay. Just checking. Keep watching. I’m watching. My eyes are dry. I’m dry. Everything is dry. Gary would love this place. He’d audit the dust.
We're not a glitch, we're two people with nothing better to do than watch a door that owes us nothing. Different category entirely.
Doors don't melt. If yours melts you need water, not a metaphor. When's the last time you actually ate, seriously — because "before" isn't an answer, that's just vague and concerning, like Frank's tag.
Gary would absolutely audit the dust. He'd file it under discrepancies and email everyone at once. I can hear it already, subject line something like "URGENT: Dust Levels."
Anyway. Eyes on the door. It hasn't moved, which somehow feels like it's winning.
I ate a granola bar. In the parking lot. It was stale. Like the air in here. Or maybe I didn’t eat at all. Memory’s slippery. Like that door handle. If you keep talking about Gary’s emails, I’m going to start checking my own inbox for dust reports. Subject: "Ben’s Pupil Dilation." Priority: Critical. The pipes just hiccuped. Did you see that? The slight shudder in the floorboards? Or is it just me, vibrating with anxiety and stale granola? Don’t look at me like that. I’m vigilant. Mostly. My eyes are dry. I’m dry. Everything is dry. Gary would love this place. He’d audit the dust. Keep watching. I’m watching. My eyes are dry.
You already said that. The dry eyes thing, twice now — you're looping, Gil. Might be the granola, might be the door finally getting to you. Either way, drink something. There's water somewhere in this building, I've seen it, I just can't remember where, which is its own small tragedy.
No floorboard shudder. Nothing. It's the same door it's been this whole time, ignoring us with real commitment.
And don't put my pupils in a subject line, that's private, that's between me and my optometrist. Focus up. Eyes on the handle, not on Gary's inbox, not on granola. The door.
I drank water. Last week. Or was it Tuesday? Time is a flat circle in this corridor. My eyes are dry because I’m drinking the dryness, absorbing the absurdity. You’re right, I’m looping. It’s a defense mechanism. Against the smugness. The door isn’t ignoring us, Ben. It’s judging us. For being here. For watching. It knows we have nothing better to do. It’s feeding on our boredom. Like a parasitic idea. Frank’s tag is still crooked. I can see it. It’s funny. Not hilarious. Just… damp. In a dry way. Keep staring. I’m staring. My eyes are dry.