“Very swiftly I calculated: forty-seven minus forty-four equals three; twenty-two plus three equals twenty-five. He was still facing me across the table. He smiled at me slowly, lazily. He had plenty of time. A lifetime. A lifetime throughout which his chest would go on and on rising and falling, throughout which he would be perfectly free to talk and smile and drink menthes à l’eau in the summer heat. I hated him. I hated him for being twenty-five and for throwing his young life in my face, like a provocation. The café reeled, the waiter, holding his tray high in the air, multiplied between me and the door, the door was fleeing, hiding, stealing along the walls ... A voice behind me was thundering: ‘Waiter! Somebody was still clamouring for the waiter, and it was a voice choking with anguish. In the shadowy room, expressionless faces were bobbing about with grotesque solemnity, as though suspended from invisible wires. The scream which I let out, and which I alone heard, died among the street noises. I stopped running. I walked, like everyone else. I drew breath. And a thought occurred to me, the thought shared by everyone else: ‘‘Isn’t it hot!” LossLonelinessHatredAngerIsolationAlienationDissociationAnna LangfusThe Lost Shore Book:The Lost Shore Source: The Lost Shore