By eight the porch had already formed a tiny receiving line. The doormat practiced the names it had collected from yesterday's shoes, and the knocker waited with its brass chin tucked, as if it would be rude to speak first.
We asked a man with a paper bag of rolls. "I said good morning to the mat," he told us. "It introduced me as the one who always wipes twice. Then the knocker whispered it, very softly, and only then came the two taps. The kettle inside had time to nod."
The neighbor's notebook by the railing read: please let the mat finish the name; the knocker will not guess. A day later the same man came back, and the mat remembered him before he even lifted his foot.