Cold-blooded in the moonlight, as it streamed in through the pantry window. By any definition: two men staring at a door. Waiting by the door. Nattily turned out in thick, tree-lined jumpers, they stood and waited, blew into each others’ ears – thoroughly enjoyed themselves in the process. You know, said the first, this could be our chance to make amends. How do you mean? asked the second. Minutes passed, the silence held them. Until, finally: Well, said the first, we could walk away from staring at this door and amuse ourselves in other fashions, perhaps somehow relating to all that business of blowing into each others’ ears. Hmm, said the second, let me ponder it and let me get back to you.
Later, hours later, the door long stared at, came the reply from the second: We could, I suppose, make amends as you say – but what would become of that door with no-one to stare at it? You mean, asked the first, as in sort of relating to that old philosophical conundrum of what if a tree falls and there is no-one around to hear it? Yes, said the second. Well, rejoined the first, the door would not cease to exist nor lose its essence of doorness, so to speak, on account of us, or anyone, not staring at it. Are you sure? asked the second. I am, replied the first.
They turned their stares then, for the first time in many a day, to each other. At which point, of course, the door disappeared.