The Sense of an Ending by Julian Barnes
8 min on the Ossington 63 Bus (northbound)
There was no sleep. Everyone tells you that. “Get your rest now”. As if you can draw from these squirreled away rations later. Little kernels of rest waiting to be cracked open. In Case of Emergency. You are cracking up. You can feel it. You feel it in the white-hot hatred you feel for the smiling strangers who coo over her big brown eyes. “Those lashes!” They do not comment on the purple smudges of fatigue under your eyes. She smiles at her captive audience, showing off her early teeth. When she wails and gnaws at her own fist there are no sympathetic eyes for you. All eyes on the prize. “Poor thing, teething is so hard. Just look how many she has already!” There is no sympathy for your bruised areolas.
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