That clock was robbing me of my sleep
“You’re exhausted,” I told myself, rolling over yet again and giving the pillow a fierce punch. “Ignore the noise and go to sleep.”
It was two-something a.m. Which meant it was four a.m. in Israel, which meant almost morning for us, after missing the previous night’s sleep on interminable travel in taxis, buses, trains, and planes. With a toddler.
I looked at the clock, with its generic white plastic rim, hanging on the floral-patterned wallpaper opposite me and told it to Be. Quiet.
It returned my glare with blank impassiveness and ticked on regardless. Loudly. Tick. Tick. Tick.
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