Sarah only drinks whiskey when she grades. She is otherwise not allowed. By herself. By her friends. Sarah, you become such an asshole when you drink whiskey, they say. It is true; they are true friends.

Sarah drinks whiskey because she has to sometimes not be in love with her students. Because she has to sometimes not be in love with herself. The end of the semester is hard, she tells herself. The end of life is hard, she remembers the hospice nurse saying. They took turns feeding her father morphine and little sips of whiskey and now and then the tiniest nibs of dark chocolate.

Sarah has had to explain to some students that failure is not death. Or is not a big death. Or is not the big death. Perhaps it is like what the French call those little deaths—les petit morts—in that as soon as it is over they will have forgotten all about it and set off in relentless pursuit of the next.

– Brendan Todt