Asbestos ceilings. Exposed brick. Hardwood floors missing boards. Broken windows. An old trashcan with a fire burning in it. Sunlight comes through ripped blinds.

They sat in lawn chairs. A man and a woman passing a beer back and forth. Taking sips. Savoring the ale.

People pass by here every day,  she said. I see them, but they don’t see me.

No one ever did, he told her.

What do you mean?

We’re invisible, he said, laughing. No one has ever seen us. Not our parents, friends, society, kids on playgrounds, store clerks. No one.

Could be, she said, taking another drink. No one’s ever seen me? You mean metaphorically?

What do you think? He paused. We have been here for years, and no one has ever said, hello.

Are we ghosts? She asked.

Might as well be. He rolled a cigarette in his palm with his unwashed fingers. It angers me.

How many people like us are there here in this land? She asked and took the offered smoke.

Millions. Gotta be. Millions of invisible people.

We should have a convention of the invisible, she proclaimed. A March. All over. A rising. She stood and pointed to the ceiling.

Yeah. You do that. He finished off the beer. I’m going to take a nap.

The two sat there in silence.