The Crossing Beams

Two beams, two colours, crossing at me. They were never supposed to meet. The pink one comes from a universe that runs hot and the blue one from one that runs cold, and I sit exactly where they cross, which makes me an accident with a job.

Where they overlap, things go strange. Light passes through solid matter. A thrown stone goes through three walls and keeps its speed. The acolytes on the stairs have learned to stand in the crossing when they want to be heard in the next room.

The Architects call it interference. I call it the only place in the building where two things that were kept apart got to touch.