Opposite my faux leather office chair, there's a block of flats guarded day and night by a thick metal door. Residents passing through rarely linger long in its frame, sometimes standing so to stop it swinging shut whilst they beckon in a companion or takeaway. Based on evidence gathered from my first floor vantage point, I would have postulated that the door was conventional, but there's a caretaker who'd disagree.
The caretaker, evidently a man of diligence, won't go through it without peering closely at the closing trajectory. Once closed, he'll often open it again gently, closely leaning in towards the fastening mechanism. After repeating a couple of times he'll go on his way with a deeply furrowed brow. He never tries to fix it. He is just fixated by it.
Even in preoccupation the door haunts him. Whilst briskly marching through the frame, the door comes slowly to a close behind him. He's probably on the way to take care of another part of the building. I watch eagerly as I know that in a climactic flash his head will always swivel around at just the right moment to see if the latch attaches the catch. I don't think he'll ever fix, avoid or understand this troubling door. Nor do I know why it's happened like this.
I sit, in my faux leather office chair, watching things like caretakers and fingertips that float across the alphabet on my keyboard. I swivel, in my faux leather office chair, often towards the kitchen, forgetting about making a cup of tea until I remember to. By which time, it's almost been made and affairs of some kind have been mentioned. I don't know why it happens like that.