Dé Domhnaigh, Feabhra 14, 2010

The hardwood was cold under his hands, the grains course under the thin waxy finish. He couldn't remember how long he'd been sitting at this table. He remembered trying to mark time once as if he was waiting for a time when he would leave, but that moment was long past now, a distant memory. The feel of the table under his hands was comforting. The chair, now well worn through use, seemed to have sprouted from the floor. The age darkened wooden legs firmly embedded themselves making it hard to slide the chair back to stand up, though why he should ever want to do that he couldn't imagine. The chair was comfortably warm, and, though not padded, somehow soft. He sat in his chair, hands on his table, and thought that somehow life was complete. The room was not large, but comfortable. Four walls surrounded him. The roof above him didn't leak. The lamp in the corner shown with a dim light, but still enough to see everything in the room. He and his table. He and his chair. They were his friends and he enjoyed their company. But the door. The door was looking at him again. He didn't like the door, and for all that he could tell the door didn't like him. He sat staring back at the door. Sometime he could ignore it but right now he just couldn't. He starring back at the door he dared it to blink, dared it to do anything. He knew how this contest would end, the door being a door would lower it's eyes and leave him in peace to enjoy the comfort of his chair and table. He just had to wait. It always ended the same way. Oh, sometimes the door would hold it's gaze for a time, but soon it would give in and resume it's normal stance of ignoring him. He thought of the many battles he and the door had, they were fond memories, and he smiled knowingly at the door. The door simply stared back unwaveringly. It never blinked, in fact he couldn't remember the door ever closing it's eyes. It would simply look away. He suddenly felt...angry. He thought that was what it was called, angry. He couldn't remember the last time he felt angry. He didn't like it, which was simply another reason to dislike the door. Staring at him silently, making him feel angry. He suddenly had the thought that he might even hate the door, but dismissed it quickly, the door would soon leave him alone anyway. He smiled again, knowing the contest would end the way it had always ended. The door stared back. He smoothed his hands against waxy surface of the table, cool and comforting. The table was on his side. It never said that it was, but it never said that it wasn't. The chair of course was on his side, how could it not be? The three of them sat staring at door. He was proud of his little coalition of furniture. Feeling that this would solidify them as friends for good, having a common enemy. Door didn't seem impressed though, still staring. He wandered how long door would last this time, not that he was waiting for anything. He even thought about looking away first this time, but considered that impossible now that his two friends had joined the fray, and continued staring defiantly at door. Door stared back...and smiled. He blinked, door had never done that before. He suddenly didn't know what to think. It was all he could do to just to keep staring at door. It was a trick. It had to be. He just had to keep staring. Door would look away soon. Door always did. He kept staring, willing door to look away. Door smirked at him, winked, and opened.