He turned around and sat there.
"Don't come any nearer," he said. His voice was like bad brakes.
So I leaned against the sill.
He saw, quicker than I, that his ankles were in range of a dive. He
pulled them up, pivoted, and stretched out on the top of the wall. It
was cement--about a foot wide. And baking hot. He rocked and wriggled
for a minute, took off his coat, folded it, and stuffed it under
himself. While doing that, he almost lost his balance. He caught a
fingerhold on the inside edge of the concrete, which stuck out over the
bricks a half or three-quarters of an inch.
"Paul," I said, "for God's sake, come in."
"I like it here."
"Okay."
"I want to think."
"Help yourself."
"You wouldn't understand."
I went back through the window and into my apartment. I was quivering
like a broken spring and my mind wasn't tracking. I shoved into the
bathroom and poured a glass of water. Equal parts of fright and
fury--as intense as I'd ever felt--slopped the water. I drank what was
left. Then I went back to the window.
"Listen," I said. "I can't stop you, if you want to knock yourself off.
But this is my apartment. Jump from somewhere else, will you?"
"I haven't decided."
"Well, then, come on in and make up your mind. I'm high-shy. I don't
like to stand on that terrace. And seeing a guy--even you--silhouetted
against my skyline makes me sick at the stomach."
"It's the only thing I ever heard of that makes you sick! New
experience for you. You like new experiences. Try to get a kick out of
it."
"Okay," I said. "Jump, then, you yellow sissy."
He nearly did. He swung around so his legs dangled in the air--all
those stories above the sidewalk. His fingers on the concrete rim
turned white and his muscles vibrated.
"Paul!" I moaned at the fool.
He pulled back. "I'm not afraid," he said--as if to himself and in a
surprised tone. "It's just that--I haven't quite decided."
"Please, cooky!" I put all the begging I have into it.