Milk(9)

            —Yes, he said.

            Then his head fell forward again. Some time passed. This time he didn’t snore.

            —Mr. Kramer, I said.

            —Yes? he said, sleepily, surprised.

            —You shouldn’t sleep here.

            —No.

            Then he rose and I could tell he wasn’t really awake. He stood swaying in the middle of the stairwell.

            —Grab the banister, I said.

            I turned on the light and kept my finger on the switch so it wouldn’t click off again. I could see a wet stain on the stairs where he’d been sitting. I could also see a big, dark spot on the seat of his pants. He squeezed the banister with both hands and started up the stairs, one step at a time.

            —You okay? I said.

            —Oh yes, he said. I’m okay.

            I went back into my apartment and filled a bucket with soap and water.

            When I returned to the stairwell, he was sitting on the top step. He sat with his head between his long legs, and he looked as though he might fall over at any moment. I set the bucket down and climbed up to him; I jostled his arm lightly.

            —Yeah? he said.

            —Come on.

            I extended my hand and helped him get up. He put his arm around my neck, with his other arm on the banister, supporting himself.

            When we’d climbed a few steps, he stopped and looked at me.

            —It’s awfully nice of you to do this, he said.

            —It’s all right, I said.

            —I mean it, he said. It’s really nice of you.

            We continued our climb. He felt heavier with each step.

            —We’re almost there, I said.

            He stopped again.

            —Can I ask you something?

            —Sure, I said.

            —How old are you?

            —I’m twenty five.

            —Oh, he said. So young.

            After we’d reached the landing, he stopped and searched his pockets. He still had his arm around me.

            —Can I offer you anything?

            —No thanks.

            —I mean it, he said.

            —You need to get some sleep.

            —No, he said. I can always do that.

            I pulled away from his arm.

            —Another time, I said, smiling.

            I went back down.

            I picked up the bucket at the foot of the stairs and began cleaning up. I dried the puddle halfway up the stairs, and as I was about to clean the mess from his wet pants at the top of the stairwell, I realized that he was still standing in front of his door.

            —Mr. Kramer, I said. Go to bed now.

            —Oh, he said.

            —Mr. Kramer, I said.

            That’s when I saw his hand working the crotch of his pants. At that same moment he turned, and I met his triumphant stare as he ejaculated onto the stairs. He held my gaze. His eyes suddenly seemed yellow; it was a little like seeing into a cat’s eyes.