Bright sunshine splashing the train station. We meet him. Smells like apples. At once it’s clear he lied on his profile. Not sapiens. OK so why are we here? say we. You want to date us? I want to chat, says he. He’s cool, calm. In the station, people are clustered. Sapiens on the east end, where the light congregates. Eating cherry strudel, slurping sugary coffee. Transcendens on the dim west end, one to a table. Meditating. Sipping water. Their temples jutting out where the extra lobes are. But we are always thinking of those lobes. The specialness.
Where shall we go? says he. You pick, says he. We picked already, we messaged about it. Too mad to repeat ourselves. Let’s sit over here in the sun, say we. Naturally he objects. A line of worry creasing his forehead. Smells now of fermentation.
Instead we take a stroll. The narrow cobbled road beside the station. He in the shade of the buildings. We in the sun. Seagulls swoop in. He shrieks, trots away. You want to date dummies? say we. No that’s not it at all, says he. There’s no clean break between us, between me and you. Is that so? say we. Furious that we came all this way, into the city, for this lie.
Fog descends. Petite cyclone, lifting crumbs from between the paving stones. We stop at a pastry shop, get strudel. He unbends his limbs. Tries to explain. You see, says he, I’m terribly lonely. People hoot in the shop. The sound of forks dragging strudel into cream. OK OK, say we, go on. I’m lonely, says he, and I spend every day hoping that it will be cloudy out, that another transcendens will be out, that they’ll want to discuss something, a book we’ve both read, anything. But, say we, you can do telepathy with them, just use that lobe to talk all spooky. Yes, says he, but nobody does that. Yes, we can see another dimension too, but it’s exhausting to spend time there, we’re always exhausted, all of us, you think we’re brilliant and powerful but in fact all we are is exhausted. OK OK, say we, so you wanted to meet so you could tell us off, so you could complain? Oh oh oh, says he, clutching his head. Letting out a bleat. Baby lamb here in the pastry shop. Can’t digest sugar, probably, heaven knows can’t, won’t, have a drink later. May be nocturnal but not in the sense you want.
Tell us what it feels like, say we. What it feels like to have those difficult, punishing thoughts. Tell us. Why do we ask? The sapiens gene. Caring, inquiring about others. He talks, and as he does, the shape of the wall deforms. A sense, not quite color or sound, remakes the room. Tiredness in his eyes. Temple pulsing. Strudel, say we. We feed him. His eyes pop open. Hiss from the espresso maker. The small back room rife with steam. Groups of people, four or five, huddled around tables, reciting poems and singing songs. Too much for him? He flops over. Nice boy. Self-involved, as they tend to be. But nice. OK OK, say we, fine, you can have a second date.