"My door is always open." He said it in that warm, approachable-leader way, the whole open-communication, come-to-me-anytime speech. Standard managerial reassurance.
The following week, a keycard lock appeared on that exact door.
The literal door. The always-open one. Now requiring a badge to get through.
I don't think he registered it for a second. In his mind these are two unrelated events — a nice thing he said about accessibility, and a facilities decision about security. The metaphor and the physical door existing in completely separate compartments of his brain, never touching, the irony invisible to him.
I clocked it instantly. And I have never, ever mentioned it. Not to him, not really to anyone. And that's a choice, because pointing it out would be a good laugh — but it would also spend the joke, turn it into a shared thing, maybe even embarrass him into changing something.
I'd rather keep it. This tiny, perfect, self-contained irony that only I seem to be carrying around. There's a particular pleasure in noticing something no one else does and just... holding it. My door is always open. Badge required. I know, and I get to know alone, and somehow that's the most satisfying part.