the ending .
it’s always after midnight that it makes the most sense. which doesn’t really make any sense at all, she thinks.
the half lit moon peeps through the curtains which are too thin to conceal anything from either sides of the world. she tries to convince herself that it’s this light that renders her unable to sleep, rather than the rush of thoughts in her head.
unfamiliar with the silence in the streets, she listens carefully to all the white noise around her. the ticking of the clock and the flapping of the blinds make a rhythm that etches confusion in her mind. tick, tock, flap, flop.
but the patterns change if you want them to, she realises. if you concentrate hard enough, you can make your own patterns; you can make them sound like whatever you want. tick, tick, tock, tock. tock, tick, tick, tock. by the time she stops concentrating on the sound of the clock she realises what is missing.
where’s the midnight traffic? where’s the sweeping of the trucks and the swooshing of the cars and their overtaking horns?
the headlights of a car overtake the brightness of the moon as it turns in down stairs.
she closes her eyes.
sleep, she tries to coax herself. go to sleep.
tick. tock. flap. flop. tick. tock. flap. flop.
and it’s over.