Night Searching

"I'm going for a walk," I say as the straps of my knock-off sandals dig into the soft flesh of my toes.

"I'm going to spew." Marielle shows the whites of her eyes and clutches her tablet tight against her abdomen. The machine's low-grade radiation is helping to soothe the greasy omelet lodged in her stomach. I'm suddenly glad to be the kind of impatient gentleman that passes the first of two identical dishes to his dining partner and decides to find something else for lunch when the cook doesn't get around to making the second. "Have a good time. And don't feel like you can't join the party downstairs. And don't feel like you can't stay here."

I nod and it's every nod I've ever made as a place holder for an explanation.

"Feel better soon. I've got some Gravol if you want it." I turn out the light and her nose ring reflects the tablet's glow as the door closes softly.

Two flights of stairs give way beneath me and the hostel foyer is filled with people, noodles, and plastic bottles filled with beer. I add a smile to a different type of nod when the hostess motions for me to join the party. I press a white headphone into its canal and my ear left drum is filled with the vibrations of Andrew Bird's voice and guitar. The hostess smiles before turning back to the party. I think tonight might be Saturday but it's not a Saturday for socializing. Maybe she understands and becomes every person whose offer I've turned down.

Outside, rough cement presses against my feet and the breeze is cooler than I ever thought it could be. The cement grows vertically into tightly packed buildings that funnel air flows through me. My shirt is freshly washed but still damp against skin. It rained today the manager of the hostel told me. This shirt was lucky to escape most of the downpour of bonded hydrogen and oxygen.

The night sky can't be dark with so many neon signs on top of other neon signs. At street level bright headlights accompany Andrew Bird as he sings, "Let's get out of here/Past the atmosphere."

So I walk on, trying to make every step meaningful. I want to get lost but a strong sense of self-preservation keeps me on well known streets. One step happens and it's every night time step I've ever taken, every time and every place wrapped up neatly in the slapping sound of plastic and heel.

Then the next step happens and things change. I'm two dimensional, bones and sinew replaced with lines of all different lengths. The major lines run through my stick legs and my box abdomen up through my head. Their molecules vibrate along their various lengths in time with the lights of the street.

"Come by sea/swarm like smoke in the dawn/we were the young/we were the swarm," Andrew Bird sings and the bass drum feeds the hum through my lines. Some more steps happen and the only thing I'm aware of is a light mist covering my glasses. I brush the front of my shirt but it can't get any more damp. It's a happy thought so I start to sing along with Andrew Bird. The words are every word I've ever sang before someone who couldn't understand my language.

I approach the river in the centre of town and the neon flowers that line its bank are the only things I can focus on. They're two dimensional and I resist their pull amid dim recollections of major lines and their energy. The next trap is Atlantis rising quickly from the waves. Skeletons are being flushed from the draining spires and merfolk dance along to an eerie beat. It's interesting but I turn my back to the scene. My next step brings me back the way I came.

"Did it carry you away/carry you all away/nomenclature's washing you away," says a voice and it spreads through connected carbon atoms to my fingertips. I remember a cafe I'd passed by several times and a major line of my brain finds the least number of street crossings that will get me there. Then I'm facing the words 'The Muse' scrawled in neon and the cafe is surprisingly two dimensional. I make the final crossing anyway. Halfway through the street I remember that crossing and passing are the same word in a language I don't understand.

I strike gold and the cafe isn't so two dimensional when I step up to the counter. Alternating light and dark bricks hold up one side of a space that contains just as many staff as customers. The chalkboard menu is written cramped near the ceiling because the lower portion of its wall is braced with so many machines.

"Here's the menu," the waitress says when I can't decipher the chalk items under the glare.

"Coffee please."

"Do you want it upstairs?"

I don't understand the question so I triumphantly point to the only empty table. She nods like I solved the riddle. I step towards my seat at the pine-chip tabletop stuck onto an uncut-log stand and it's amazing. I kill more time by examining the obvious staircase that I had walked by on my way to the counter. The waitress brings my coffee before I can decide how many dimensions it has though.

The coffee takes a step to my lips and it's the only liquid that I've ever tasted. A taxi flashes by and it's the only machine to have ever operated. I look at the counter and the waitress is the only person I've ever met. I realize Andrew Bird is no longer singing, only a guitar and the sound of a dragonfly's wings fill my leftmost nitrogen atoms. I finish my cup quickly in order to return to the hostel. The party continues as the hostess and I perform a complex ritual consisting only of nods and smiles.

"The Gravol totally fixed me," Marielle says brightly when I step into the room, the stairs having been remade beneath me.

"That's great." I pause to take off my sandals and it adds weight to such generic words. But I say them with every one of my lines. The only follow up I can think of is that I love this place. I don't know what those words mean but it comes out anyway.

"Why's that?" She looks up, briefly.

"Just the feeling here. Same as always, right?" I say without thinking.

I get into bed and I'm only aware of that feeling here.