It’s Too Hot Mosquito

I see you over there, don’t think I don’t know what you have in mind. We play this game every year; you, waiting until I turn out the lights, buzzing past my ear once to signal your approaching legions. Your stealth is not lost on me, I applaud your patient perseverance. We have the same discussion every summer -I’ve told you how impressed I am – what more do you want? I realize the question is silly, you’re after my blood, the only thing that sustains and guarantees your survival. Fair enough Mosquito, but why me? Why not my husband, children, dog, any of the millions of people who surely taste as good? Why am I the focus of your life? Is it because I react so violently to your bites? Do you get some sick pleasure out of watching me scratch until looking like a small pox victim?

I know you’ll refuse to answer, so lets play the game. I’ll spend half an hour turning over every corner, flushing out and dispatching reckless scouts, swatting myself into a false sense of security. You’ll watch from whatever demon hole you inhabit until I’m ready to go to bed. No doubt you’re laughing so hard, it takes a few minutes to gain composure for that first dive. You could just bite me yet never fail to trumpet your assault. All part of the game isn’t it Mosquito? Gauging how quickly I’ll levitate on my way to the light, snickering as I try to hunt you down. Usually content to play this way for hours – you don’t have anything to do in the morning.

You’re not yourself tonight Mosquito – I can’t tell you how relieved this makes me. Yes, the heat is oppressive, heat waves usually are – neither of us are ourselves. It’s too hot to play, forgive me for ending it now. Very funny Mosquito, in all our years I’ve not seen that much of my blood explode on the bedroom wall. Well played Mosquito.