I felt the blissful tug of drowsiness at about 3 a.m. Monday morning, after hours of tossing and turning. Closed my book, turned off the light. Embraced the heaviness of imminent slumber.
I only vaguely registered a sinister whine, as much a sense of disturbance in the air as an actual sound. Then, an insistent itch. Just off the knuckle, in the tender skin between the second and third fingers on my right hand, the mosquito had bit. Hard.
Enraged, I flicked on the light again, focusing my eyes on my immediate surroundings. It didn’t take long. The mosquito clung heavily to the wall above me, fattened and lethargic, gorged with blood. I raised my hand slowly, then slammed it home.
I pulled my hand away and brushed the tiny carcass from it. Examined the red smear on the wall. Vindication.
In the normal course of events, I’m all about empathy for little things. If a fruitfly falls in my wine, I’ll take great pains to try to rescue it, blowing on its wings to dry it out and sober it up. But mosquitoes are something else. Mosquitoes taunt you before attacking. Mosquitoes hit you at 3 a.m. when you’re already having a shitty time trying to sleep. Mosquitoes go for the skin between your knuckles, or between your toes.
Some murders are justified.
I think this murderous rage against mosquitoes is a family trait. Your brother takes it upon himself to start a determined and extensive hunt at the first whine. He runs around fluttering curtains and trying to sneak up on the little buggers. It would be very funny if it did not happen in the middle of the night. I LOVE your new blog!
Posted by: Nicole | August 01, 2007 at 12:16 AM