You leave the restaurant after a particularly stressful night, and return home to find your apartment in complete disarray. Disgusted, at the mess and yourself for making it, you set to work giving it a deep cleaning. You’re not sure what's possessed you, but it feels wonderful. It leaves you exhausted, but with a sense of accomplishment. Deliciously tired, you fall asleep.

Milton sits on one of the chairs in Marcus’ breakfast nook, methodically slicing an apple and then placing the pieces on a neatly folded paper towel spread out before him on the table. He’s already eaten, of course, but finds the operation somehow soothing. It’s like the tingling of a missing limb; though his is an altogether pleasant sensation, where the maimed often report these phantom stimuli to be a source of distress, even pain.

It’s the memory of a hunger that isn’t a Monster; an all-devouring fire or bottomless pit—that’s what he’s enjoying. The memory of a simple hunger, for an apple, say, cold and crisp; one that is easily satiated. Marcus still knows that hunger, will likely awaken hungry sometime tomorrow, late morning or early afternoon. Ravenous, and a little woozy, after his all-night cleaning binge.

Milton envies Marcus that hunger, which (for him) is almost forgotten.

As if on cue, Milton’s host appears. Marcus, the aging sommelier, is in his black work slacks and white undershirt. Still quite trim for his age, he cuts a fine figure. His hair is a distinguished gray. Comically, he is wearing big, yellow, rubber gloves and his wire-rim glasses are slightly askew, the blue eyes behind them are inscrutable. He does not look at Milton. Instead, he opens the cabinet doors below his sink and crouches, searching around for some cleaning product.

While I am here, you will not notice me. When I am gone, I was never here. You will have cleaned all night, alone, and gone to bed, satisfied with a job well done.

It had been easy to get Marcus’ address out of him at his place of employment. Milton had forced his body to digest several glasses of wine and, with just a few words, told Marcus to expect him later that evening.

Marcus had obeyed to the letter.

Now, he straightens with a spray bottle, kicking the cabinets closed. The bottle’s label depicts a picture of the self-same bottle, spraying a gleaming countertop. He turns and leaves the kitchen. Milton can hear him walking down the hall and opening the door to his bathroom.

The Lord in the kitchen stands and adjusts his suit jacket, dusts off his pants. He sets the apple core among the slices, picks up the paper towel, and folds it around the disarticulated fruit. He considers dropping it into the garbage can, but then thinks better, pocketing the little package instead.

Without bidding Marcus goodnight, Milton lets himself out.