Inter-Dimensional Beings At The Bar

by Terence Krey

“I don’t understand the human race anymore.”
 
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
 
We sit at the bar, making contradictory statements to one another for a few hours. This used to be our spot. We would arrive, mingle, laugh too loud, and scream in excitement when someone familiar came through the door. Now other people do those stupid, obnoxious things.
 
They seem to be so much better at it, honestly.
 
It’s not that we feel alien, though. Aliens would at least be a curiosity. People would come up to us. Or stare at us. Or run from us in awesome, existential fear. And it’s not like we’re dead. We are happening, right now, in this space. Nobody’s walking through us.
 
Inter-Dimensional Beings. I like the sound of that. They’re right there, out of the corner of your eye, just a little wisp of something. But you can’t focus on them. You can’t actually perceive them. You’re not physically made to.That sounds nice.
 
I spend way too much time ruminating on these things. A girl asks me if this chair is free or not. I say nothing. I think about Planet X. I think about the Tenth Dimension. I think about Lilith. She takes the chair. I guess it’s fine. A song plays. I’ve played it on repeat many times by myself. I think it means something. It doesn’t.
 
“What happened to my chair?” he asks, returning from the bathroom. I guess it’s time to leave.
 
We stand outside. I smoke a cigarette. I stare up at the lack of stars. People stumble out of the bar; the wave of excitement almost knocks us down. They stroll down the street, looking straight ahead. For them: night, accomplished.
 
“I don’t understand us anymore.”
 
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”