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.