A man sits alone in a room. Elbows on knees. Fingers crossed. Chin on hands. A wrinkle on his brow. He is troubled. There is a table by his side with brandy, pear, and cheese. In the background, Mozart. On the fire, a hearth. This room is designed to relax. Why then, is he troubled?
You can see the tension in his shoulders. They curl into each other, almost touching and though he doesn’t move, his very presence is violent. Perhaps it is money. But no. His clothes are well… and the décor speaks of the sort of wealth that just is; without the need to show off. A well thumbed bookshelf and the pictures on the wall, the leather of the chair and even the desk in the corner. They all appear simple, but of the highest quality.
His eyes twitch towards the door. Ah that’s it. Perhaps he’s waiting for someone who has not yet arrived. But no. There are no clocks here. This isn’t that sort of room. On his wrist there is a watch, yet he makes no move to look at it. What then? He still looks at the door, his wrinkle deepening. Oh. Oh yes. It all makes sense now. The door itself is the object of his tension. But what about the door offends him so?
It is an ordinary sort of door. At first glance. But a longer look shows that it too, like all the other objects in the room, speaks of history and wealth. The door is white. Not pure white, but an off-white color that blends in nicely with the accent on the baseboard. It is wooden, engraved and a bit on the heavy side, though its hinges gleam dully so you can be sure it won’t creak. Approximately 80” tall and 32” across. It has 4 panels, each engraved with a simple design of three co-centric circles. The edges of the panels are beveled, giving it all a rather solemn look. The doorknob is a soft bronze color, same as the hinges, with a smooth bulb rising out of a floral-patterned stem. It’s the sort of knob that fits right into your hand and is always warm to the touch. The bottom edges are much smoother than the others from years of rubbing, though not in such a way that they’d splinter. In short, this door was rather familiar with its business. It is well versed in the art of opening and closing and you can see it takes pride in its work.
Motion. The man has risen. He walks to the door, leaving his slippers behind. His bare feet crush the carpet gently; any sound must be forgotten. It’s a short distance but his steps get smaller and smaller and it takes longer and longer for him to lift his feet. If we looked through his eyes what would we see? A monstrous wall, gleaming off-white? A door, an idea that grows larger and larger and eventually knocks us off our feet?
He lays his hand against the door. Gently, tenderly, a lover long lost who perhaps might flee. His eyes are closed and now he is listening? For a heartbeat? For an answer? His lips move, but nothing comes out. If he asked a question, there’s no reply. This isn’t that sort of room.
He walks back to the chair, quickly now. He makes the brandy retreat. Then pours another. That one withdrawn as well. Back at the door and his hand is on the handle now. He takes a breath and straightens up.
And then he goes through.