Milk(8)

            —Did you ever do it?

            —Once. But it wasn’t very successful. It didn’t turn him on. It’s probably natural. Sometimes fantasies should stay fantasies.

            Claudia lit her cigarette, and they sat for a while in silence, smoking. Smoke curled around their heads.

            —This is your life, Sophus said. Good story.

            —It’s pretty far out there, isn’t it?

            —I’ll say!



            Afew days later, Sophus went to get a haircut. The barber ran his hand through Sophus’s shoulder-length hair and asked what Sophus wanted done.

            —I don’t really know.

            —A page boy?

            Sophus looked at himself in the mirror.

            —I could also just trim it.

            Sophus stared at himself.

            —You know what, he said. Cut it all off.

            —Super short?

            —No, shaved.

            The barber tousled his hair.

            —Are you sure?

            Sophus nodded.

            The barber shifted his weight from one leg to the other and looked at Sophus in the mirror. Then he went and got the little black trimmer with steel teeth.

            In one long, calm stroke he removed a strip of hair across Sophus’ head. Then he moved slightly to the left and repeated the same motion.

            Sophus looked in the mirror and watched his hair fall to the floor in long, feather-like tufts. Soon one half of his head was white and shaved.

            The barber shifted position and Sophus felt a light pressure against his shoulder. He closed his eyes and imagined that it was Claudia cutting his hair. He imagined that it was the pressure from her vulva that he felt.

            When the barber turned off the clipper, Sophus opened his eyes to his white crown.

            —Now I hope you don’t regret this, the barber said.





            Kramer



            In the building on the other side of the square there’s an apartment where the light is always on. A bare bulb hangs in one of the rooms, and it has been on for as long as Kaspar and I have lived here. When I wake at night, or if we come home late, I glance over there to see if it is still turned on.

            Why don’t they turn off the light? I always wonder.

            The apartment is too far away for me to see who lives there; sometimes I’m not even sure anyone lives there at all. Yet I often find myself looking over there.

            One afternoon as I stood by the window, I heard a strange noise in the hallway. I stepped over the creaky board in the entryway and leaned carefully against the door. With my fingers I pushed the little cap away from the peephole. At first I couldn’t see anything—it was nearly dark in the hallway—but then I noticed a crumpled figure sitting halfway down the stairwell. It was our upstairs neighbor, Mr. Kramer. He sat hunched over, with his arms crossed at the knee and his white head resting on his arms. The sound I’d heard was a low, irregular snore.

            I opened the door and stepped into the hallway, and stood looking at him. I don’t know how much time passed, five minutes, maybe more. Suddenly he stopped snoring and lifted his head and looked at me.

            —Oh, he said. Is it you?

            —Mr. Kramer, I said. Don’t you think you should go to bed?