I Don't Exist Over There

Parallel Saint Roley eats a deep fried whelk and a macaron crumb.

So this is the life of my counterpart, thinks parallel Saint Roley.

He wipes his orange beak, with a black wing feather.

He surveys the party of humans he is now among.

A couple of philosophers, or clowns. Like the ones at his table.

A natural historian and a Prussian scientist/explorer. Tick.

A couple of poets. Also.

One creative. Hah. They must be two a penny.

One lady. Same.

A cement infant, with a claw.

He doesn't know a cement infant. He will talk to the infant.

In my parallel universe, you don't exist, says parallel Saint Roley.

I don't like your face, says Terence. Where's real Saint Roley?

I don't like yours, says parallel Saint Roley.

Everyone likes mine, says Terence.

I don't, says parallel Saint Roley. Why do you have a claw?

On my face? asks Terence.

Didn't say it was on your face, says parallel Saint Roley. I don't like your claw either.

Wah! says Terence.

What's the matter? asks Belle.

 I don't exist over there, says Terence.

Of course you don't, says Belle. He's talking about our equivalents. See that lady? She'll be my equivalent.

She waves at the lady.

The lady waves back.

She is expecting a baby.

Belle turns away from the lady.

Pablo turns towards Belle.

Saint Roley emerges from under the parallel table, and makes a help sign.

Help sign of the oystercatcher: Wings up, eyes rolling.

Let me return to my universe!

Belle pokes Pablo, who nudges her back in an amorous manner.

Parallel Saint Roley takes advantage of the fracas. He hops back to his table.

Saint Roley! cries the expectant lady (that's what she calls him). Mind my seat. I must go for a pee!

Saint Roley (our Saint Roley) has meanwhile hopped back to his table.

He eats a deep fried whelk and a macaron crumb.

And is grateful.