Milk(11)

            I turned and went out to the kitchen. I stood beside the window and looked across to the apartment on the other side of the square.

            Later, as we lay in bed, Kaspar said:

            —Every second somebody dies somewhere. Now it just happened to be someone upstairs.

            —So you’re saying that I didn’t do anything wrong?

            —Absolutely nothing wrong.

            —You’re sure?

            —Yes, he said. Of course I’m sure.

            —I hope you’re right, I said.

            I huddled close to him, and that’s how we lay for a while. He got on top of me, and I let him spread my legs.

            When he came, I saw Kramer. I saw his sperm arcing out over the stairs, and I saw his eyes.

            —Is something wrong? Kaspar asked afterwards.

            I shook my head.

            He wouldn’t understand, I thought.





            Hair



            Mette is standing on the scale brushing her teeth. Frands is watching the needle tremble in rhythm with her movements. She steps off the scale, her back to him, and goes to the sink. He sees her expressionless face in the mirror. In her left hand she gathers up her hair, bends forward, and spits a jet of pink foam into the sink. Then she puts down the toothbrush and looks up. Frands’ first impulse is to avoid catching her glance in the mirror, but he forces himself not to.

            —Mette, he says.

            She walks past him and into the hall.

            For a moment, he’s left with his own reflection. Then he follows her into the bedroom. She’s already in bed, her face to the wall. He stands at the window looking out. A car is parked under a streetlight and he can see two people sitting inside. He can’t tell whether it’s anyone they know.

            —Mette?

            —Stop saying my name.

            —Listen to me, he says.

            —I have forgiven you. Let’s not talk about it anymore.

            —Okay, he says.

            Frands sees the neighbor’s daughter exit the car and walk toward the house. Before she opens the front door, she turns and waves. The car starts and slowly begins to roll away. Lights snap on in the house, and he follows her journey from room to room. Finally, the only light on in the house is on the top floor, to the right.

            —Then sleep well.

            —Where are you going? she asks.

            —I’m just going to have a drink. Then I’ll be up.

            Frands goes downstairs and sits on the couch. The bottle of cognac is on the coffee table. He warms the glass in his hand for a while before he drinks. The liquid feels soft in his mouth. There’s a slimy gray clump in the center of the table, residue from the washing machine’s filter. He pulls a long black hair from the clump and lays it beside the others Mette has already pulled out. He drains his glass and refills it. It’s warm in the living room.

            He takes his glass and the bottle and goes out to his studio. He sits on a stool. Through the skylight he can trace the outline of the pear trees’ upper branches, which reach over the house. There’s no moon, yet a small glow of light is still thrown though the large window frames. He can see his granite towering in the center of his studio, unfinished, more stone than sculpture. And he can see all of the small figures—Mette calls them children—many of them just as unfinished.