Three Inches Blueward

I’m regretting agreeing to help my fifth-dimensional neighbor move.

“Bring it forward.” We’re carrying his couch through the front door. He’s inside and it’s apparently stuck on something.

“Good. Now go about three inches blueward.”

“Blueward?”

“Yes! Hurry, this thing is heavy.”

“How?”

“I’m trying to use words you know, Steve! You know what blue is, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“So, turn the couch that way! Quick!”

I move it left. There’s a crash.

I looked inside. The couch disappears into the wall and re-emerges through the kitchen ceiling.

“Grown adult,” he mutters to himself. “Doesn’t know what blue is.”

I’ve been sick all week with pneumonia, which is why I’m a bit late with this one. You could blame the sickness on how strange this story is, but I think it’s just me.