All My Friends Are Superheroes by Andrew Kaufman Page B

was exiting through the rear doors. They made brief eye contact, but nothing more.
    The Blue Outcast changed his routine. He took that streetcar, the 504, at 6:04 every day. The Blue Outcast and the Orange Exile noticed each other more and more. They made eye contact for longer periods of time. The Blue Outcast made sure to be at the end of the line for the front doors of the streetcar. The Orange Exile made sure to be first out the back doors. They began waving to each other as they passed on the street. They still hadn’t chatted or exchanged names. That didn’t seem to be the point.
    Six weeks after they’d become aware of each other, a thunderstorm rolled across the city. The rain backed up the storm drains. Lightning struck close to the Blue Outcast’s call centre. It was 7:30. He’d missed the 6:04. He was the only one in the office. The sound boomed through the room. He looked out the window to see if there was any damage.
    At that exact moment, the Orange Exile was looking out the window of her apartment. The call centre and the Orange Exile’s apartment were directly across from each other, on the second floors of three-storey buildings.
    The Blue Outcast looked at the Orange Exile. Lightning cracked again. She put her index finger in her mouth. She pulled it out. It wasn’t orange any more. It was invisible. She held it up for the Blue Outcast to see.
    The Blue Outcast cried. His tears cut streaks of invisibility down his face. He stepped back from the window. He undressed. Naked, he left the call centre. He walked to the ground floor, stepped into the rain and looked across the street where orange feet and orange legs were standing in an orange puddle.
    They stood in the rain. The Blue Outcast looked up at the sky and held out his arms. He let rain fall on his face. He looked down at his hands and didn’t see them. He looked back across the street and couldn’t see the Orange Exile.
    Neither of them has been seen since.
    Tom arrived at the pub ten minutes late. He searchedfor an empty table. He found one where a glass of beer was drinking itself and sat down.
    ‘I’m Tom,’ said Tom. ‘Thanks for meeting me.’ He held out his hand and David Duncan shook it.
    ‘I don’t know how I can help you,’ David Duncan said.
    ‘Neither do I,’ said Tom. Tom didn’t know where to look. He focused on a beer ad where David’s voice seemed to be coming from.
    ‘What do you want to know?’
    ‘I want to know how to convince my wife that I’m not invisible.’
    ‘But you’re not invisible.’
    ‘I am to her,’ said Tom.
    ‘Yeah,’ David Duncan said. ‘I was invisible to my wife, too.’
    ‘Was?’
    ‘It didn’t work out.’
    The waitress came over. Tom ordered a beer. He slid the ashtray between his hands. They didn’t say anything. David Duncan emptied his glass.
    ‘Sometimes these things happen for a reason,’ David said.
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘We’re not together any more, but if I hadn’t met her, I’d still be blue.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said Tom.
    ‘Maybe you just weren’t ready for it.’
    ‘Yeah,’ Tom repeated. The waitress brought his beer. Tom pushed it across the table. He pulled a twenty from his wallet, set it down and walked home.

SEVENTEEN

MINIMALIST APARTMENT
    Turbulence bumps the airplane. Tom and the Perfectionist bounce as high as their seatbelts let them. Tom looks at his watch. He has four minutes left. He thinks about the return portion of his ticket. He contemplates going home to the empty rooms he used to share with the Perfectionist.
    In their apartment Tom and the Perfectionist had 105 articles (plus personal hygiene products). Before they moved in together, they had many more. On moving day Tom rented the largest truck U-Haul offered. The Amphibian helped him move.
    ‘You’ve got a lot of stuff,’ said the Amphibian. He carried a box of books. On top of the box of books were a stool and a crate of vinyl LP s.
    ‘I don’t have a lot of stuff,’ Tom answered. He