(For some reason, the night seems to draw him in like a serpent baring its fangs in the twilight.)
I’m a night owl.
(The half-full moon rises above the trees slowly, slowly, as if it were continuously mocking him, perpetually reminding him of the steady ticking of the clock and how many hours were left until la lune eventually set, as it always did, to be replaced by its flaming yellow counterpart le soleil.)
I prefer the darkness.
(He glances out the window furtively, almost guiltily, as if he shouldn’t. As if he might discover a pair of yellowed eyes staring back at him. The serpent, perhaps? He doesn’t know.)
I like the silence.
(It seems to swallow him up, envelop him in the crushing pressure of emptiness. The droning hum of the air conditioner is the only solace as his face is bathed in the flickering paleish-blue light of the monitor screen.)
I enjoy the rustling of the leaves in the night air.
(There’s a ghost at the window. A poltergeist? It taps on the window, it wants to be let in. His heart palpitates quicker and quicker. He shuts the blinds. It’s still not enough. A ghostly moan that seemingly emanates from nowhere and everywhere penetrates the room down to its bare wooden walls.)
The quiet serenity is gratifying.
(Every creak on the floorboard seems like yet another dream rising up from its grave to swallow him whole. Even with a pair of socks on, the steady creak-creak-creak of the floorboard in the far-left corner of the room draws his eyes inexorably toward the maddening sound. He’s afraid to turn his head. For he might find something that would go against his entire preconception.)
I enjoy the night.
(Frozen in place, unmoving in the darkness, he flinches as the headlamps of an approaching vehicle shine through the paned window, momentarily blinding him and assaulting his ears with a shrieking roar. The moment passes, and he is left in the cold, vacuuming silence of the night.)