THE STROKES OF MIDNIGHT

The first night, he was convinced the fried chicken was at fault. Sometimes, deep-fried food can be challenging to digest. To find sleep. The first night, he didn’t mind it and said nothing. He knew it would have insulted her—she tended to be touchy. He’d just met her a couple of months ago and already knew this side of her by heart.

     They had decided to rent an Airbnb for a week in the woods of Mont-Laurier. After the first night, he didn’t mind the strokes of midnight, although he wondered the kind of thing one can ask themselves after booking a last-minute Airbnb for 6 whole nights with a sort of stranger—was it a mistake?

     He wasn’t sure he could really call her a stranger. Still, he wouldn’t share his Netflix account password with her (which represented almost all of his other platform passwords, let’s admit). Do we truly know someone after eight weekends?

     Even so, he thought he was being unfair. It wasn’t her fault if the cottage bed was that small, considering. According to the description, it was supposed to be full-size. A tiny full-size. Very tiny. And he knew he always was a light sleeper. But being held by the head, promptly and firmly, in the middle of the night would have been a rude awakening for anybody.

     Ah! That’s right, he said to himself. Around 2 am, it was about being held promptly and firmly by the head, but before that, around midnight, it was the backhand stroke on his forehead. That’s it, he remembered, and this stroke was a sort of revelation of the possibility of violence. It was violent, period. And this thought wasn’t reassuring to him. Nor was this stroke.

     Then, his head has been held firmly like we’d do with a coconut or a baseball that we’d like to smash on the ground. No one would like to be a coconut or a baseball that one would plan to smash. Although on the first night, despite all these thoughts, he didn’t mind it. He still wasn’t sure enough if he should bring it up, afraid that perhaps he had misinterpreted her intentions.

     On the third night, though, he felt she meant to do it. While turning herself around in the very tiny full-size bed, she gave him a punch on the nose, strongly enough for him to feel a sort of electricity travelling through his skull. Then, no — he couldn’t help it. He turned on the light quickly and, furious, stared at her.

     “Why are you hitting me?!” he shouted.

     She then stretched herself slowly, looking like she was trying poorly to pretend she was still asleep, an act he didn’t fall for. He was sure she meant to do it, that she obviously knew she hit him.

      “Hmm?”

     It was her response before she turned her back on him. Once again, he noticed it on the old digital clock. It was midnight.

☽

     The next day, she was fixing herself some breakfast like nothing had happened. Her way of scraping the pan with the spatula seemed rough, neglectful. Suddenly, he couldn’t look at her the same way. He really didn’t enjoy her company anymore. Still, he joined her, barely hiding his jaded face.

     “Are you okay?” she asked, sheepishly.

     “Yeah. Well, I don’t know. You’ll tell me you didn’t mean it?”

     “What?”

     “Last few nights.”

     “…”

     “… the strokes of midnight,” he precised, with a notch of irony.

     “Uh?”

     “THE STROKES, the one you gave me. Always at fucking midnight.”

     She burst out laughing, which made him even angrier.

     “So you admit it? You meant it?”

     She then dropped the spatula in the pan full of fried eggs and said:

     “Why would I hit you? Come on! This is absurd. I sleep at night. Either you dreamt about it or we just bumped into each other by accident.”

     As an answer, he just nodded, disheartened, looking down at his feet. After a while, she added:

     “What now, you want to cancel it all?”

    The statement seemed far-fetched. However, he restrained himself from speaking. He wanted to say yes. But it was all paid for, and he didn’t want to fight or feel awkward during the whole two and a half hours it would take to go back to town.

     He also felt guilty. For cancelling and even for just thinking of cancelling. He just hid behind denial and said:

     “That’s a bit of a stretch. I’d just like not to be hit while I sleep, or even when I don’t sleep. I just… nope.”

     She then touched his arm softly, like she meant to reassure him while saying it wouldn’t happen again anyway. But she didn’t say a word. And he didn’t feel reassured.

     That night, they played Monopoly on the kitchen table. But he was already gone. The honeymoon period was far away, like it vanished with Mont-Laurier. And he knew he would disappear too, discreetly and without her, before midnight.