The Door

She knocked on his door four times (it's a pretty front door, she thought: two hanging baskets suspended like ostentatious earrings) and tried to think of what she would say when he opened it. Maybe something like 'Here I am,' but not that. That wouldn't sound right, and it might not even be true. If you think about it, she thought, am I really here? If it's true then it's self-evident and therefore doesn't need to be said, and if it's not true then it opens up a whole new can of Cartesian worms, like what is here? And does the fact that she assumes that she is here qualify as an actual thought, a thought that would confirm her existence here? This is what she thought. And then she thought that he would be inside, writing a story about what she is thinking as she stands on his doorstep dumbly looking at the hanging baskets. What she is actually thinking now is that she should write a story about waiting for him to open the door and about how her story and his story would, or should, be basically identical. And all this before he has even opened the door.