Sideways

         He walked casually along the smooth stone path; keeping his eyes on the cliff edge a few hundred feet before him. He passed square pools of inky blackness set into the stone at regular intervals to either side of the path. Occasionally, flickers of moonlight reflected from the glass surface hidden within the inky depths. If he were seen, someone would ask what he was doing. These questions confused him.
         Obviously, he thought, his long black cloak billowing out behind him, I'm walking.
         However, the question would be warranted. After all, he was walking up the side of a skyscraper.
         As he came to the cliff edge—the roof—he barely broke stride stepping over the lip. To him, it was like standing on a wall for a brief moment. Then the world righted itself, and he turned to walk along the wide, flat border. He loved the view up here. He enjoyed looking out over the city.
         He'd never been a hero. He wasn't very strong, or clever; people confused him. As he stopped to overlook the city, the cloak's long fabric draped around his ankles. A gust of wind—smelling of refuse, tar, and smoke—flared the cloak out dramatically. He smiled to himself sardonically, pulling it closed.
         Despite not understanding people, he didn't dislike them. He respected their ability to believe in silly nonsense. I wonder what it's like to be a person, he thought. How does it feel to know you're just like everyone else? He sighed, his shoulders sagging. He'd never even heard of someone doing what he could do. He crouched down, pulling the cloak around his knees. The city was beautiful from up here.
         It was the perfect analogy for humans. From certain perspectives, they seemed orderly like the streets that gridded the landscape below him. And, just like the city, the beauty would diminish upon closer inspection. Cracks in the pavement were like cracks in their logic. Refuse in the alleys were like old traditions; once useful—now broken and creating clutter. The streets—organized and orderly from up here—displayed examples of shoddy work upon closer inspection: traffic markers askew, rough patches of mortar on bricks, and uneven stairs with loose handrails. Just like people, he thought.
         As he ruminated, a strange sensation grew along his spine. Just a mild tingling—a soft prickling—like a gentle coolness that stiffened tiny hairs. The feeling grew and disrupted his musings.
         Why do I feel like I'm being watched? he thought.
         He twisted around, looking behind him; his breath catching. Pale moonlight lit the usual dark shapes on the roof: various pipes, vents, and machinery. Nothing moved. He let out a long slow breath, feeling himself relax. He turned back, looking over the city again. A distant siren pierced the constant hum of vehicles traveling through the night.
         Would've been interesting if someone was there when I turned around, he thought. But no, there was no one there. People rarely noticed him.
         He felt worn out. He wasn't tired or sleepy. He just didn't have much energy. But he couldn't sit there forever, so he forced himself to his feet. He casually stepped over the edge to begin walking down the side of the skyscraper. And came face to face with a woman, standing on the wall just as he was.
         "Hello" she said, her slight frame displaying curiosity.
         "Uhm, hello?"
         She stepped forward quickly, then poked his forehead. "You're bald," she said, cocking her head to the side and lightly stepping back.
         "How are you—"
         "I'm not bald," she said. She shook her head, causing her dark hair to wave out behind her.
         He shook his head. "No, I mean," he said, waving ambiguously toward the wall, "How are you here?"
         "Same way you are," she said, "I think."
         "I just don't think about it."
         Of course, that made him think about it. He was suddenly aware of the ground hundreds of feet below him. The world righted itself, and he began plummeting toward the concrete below. His drop ended abruptly; his breath catching. Pain flared across his neck as he coughed; his eyes bulging. His fingers scrambled at the edges of the cloak; pulled tight across his throat. The edges of his vision grew dark. He gripped the fabric with both hands, pulling himself up. He took a deep breath, then twisted around to look up at the woman. She was holding onto the end of his cloak with one hand. How strong is she? he thought.
         "Don't think so much," she said, smiling. Then released his cloak.
         His heart raced as his stomach lurched. Wind screamed in his ears. Don't think, he thought. How am I supposed to think about not thinking?
         "What's the square root of three-hundred and eighty four?" she yelled down to him.
         "What?" he yelled, looking up at her as he fell. "How am I supposed to know?"
         His view made it easier to think of the wall as down. His back slammed against the concrete wall as he skidded to a halt. She casually walked toward him.
         "Good thing you stopped thinking, huh?" she said, offering a hand to help him up.
         "Yea," he said slowly, taking her hand. "Good thing." He stood up on shaky legs, and looked behind him. The sidewalk, a wall to his eyes, was within reach. His eyes widened, realizing how close he'd come to death.
         "What's the deal with square roots anyway?" he said, turning back to her.
         "Just something to take your mind off the situation," she said, turning to walk back up the wall.
         "Hey wait," he said, walking after her. "I have questions."
         "Everyone does," she said. "That's one of the beautiful things about being a person."