There's a mosquito in our room.
Well, the room. I guess it isn't ours and maybe that's some of the problem. But it's here, buzzing around an otherwise silent landscape of cotton peaks and valleys as I adjust and readjust and try to get comfortable. I know I'm not falling asleep any time soon but maybe I can get comfortable. There's a patch of light trickling in from the other room and every so often I can see the mosquito zipping back and forth between us. I never remember to turn off the light in the room where the bar is and I think it's because I'm half-heartedly trying to get caught mid-cocktail-party-for-one. He is unaffected, both by the mosquito and by the amount of whiskey that routinely disappears overnight. If you can sleep through one, you can sleep through the other. Maybe it's no surprise everyone is asleep--this much be exhausting to watch.
There's a mosquito in the room. The maddening part is not the buzzing that has become siren-like in the last hour, but the steady whispers underneath the shrill battle cry. I swear I can hear her talking to me. Of course it's a her. It's always a woman. And I can tell because she bites. The bite doesn't hurt so much but the poison is itchy. My veins are full of it by now, I'm sure. I can feel the heat of it surging in my bloodstream as my heart rate sprints to catch up with my racing thoughts. I could leave the room or at least watch TV to drown her out but no--tonight I think I'll listen. I'll even give her a megaphone. What does she need? What do you need, baby?
I wonder how she got in here. I always close the screen door behind me when I retreat to the back porch. I haven't gone out the front door in days. Maybe it was just the right timing. We must have done some beautifully coordinated dance, if it were visible, some extravagant choreography where I managed to get outside with coffee, cigarettes and phone all in hand and the weight of the world on my shoulders all while remembering to close the door and there she was, staying out of sight and out of mind with a singular goal of coming after me later. Maybe I just let my guard down--phone, coffee, cigarettes AND the weight of the world is a lot to juggle.
Maybe she was here before me.
Maybe she got here first and I'm the third wheel.
Either way, there is a mosquito in the room. Would it be different if it were our room? How is this not waking him up? Between my endless and utterly futile attempts to settle down and settle in and her incessant fucking whispering, how is this not a bigger problem for both of us? Why am I the only one being ambushed? Is he just used to mosquitos? Better at them?
I can see the iceberg tip of his shoulder jutting out from our sea of blankets. I Titanic my way into his sharp edges for a snuggle, burying my face between his shoulder blades and tucking my knees behind his. I know it won't last long but I do this most nights when I need a hug; I just motherfucking take one, and he kind of likes it. But it gets too hot or too needy or too something and at the first sign of his discomfort I bail back to my side. Women and mosquitos first. We leave him be.
On the old mattress there was a dip where I slept, carved out from someone else who jumped ship. I used to try to fit my knees where I thought hers went--it never really worked out. But the new mattress, our mattress, doesn't have that. And I'd like to write something nice about blank slates, but not tonight. Tonight The Mosquito has granted me an audience, and I can't be late. She's whispering. Well then, tell me your secrets. Fuck, tell me his.
I am back in the room with the bar. Thank god I left that light on. Oh, maybe that's the real reason I do this... last call is when I say it is. When the mosquito lets me sleep. But now it's diet Dr. Pepper and whichever bottle I can reach first. Tastes like college. Tastes like home. Tastes like here.
I write myself a note on the mirror. I can't wait to talk about this and I have to remember whatever this is. I'll write it here in an eyeliner I know I can't cry away. And I'll see it. And I'll know. I'm dancing around living room now. It's quiet here. My cheeks are red and I can't see into the room. I lost my glasses. I lost the mosquito. I'm writing in my head. I always am. I'm singing out loud. I usually am not. I am acting so silly now but we'll have a conversation and that will be better. I'll get better. It gets better.
Sometimes the conversations are more important than the actions and sometimes they just... aren't. I'm back in the room. I'm out of diet Dr. Pepper. I'm tired of drinking out of the bottle. I lost my favorite glass. I erased the note on the mirror. I am embarrassed about it. I won't remember.
There are mosquitos in our room. Too many. I hope they start with my eyeballs so I don't have to watch what I'm doing to myself.
I stretch my arms up and get them over the blanket cocoon I've swaddled myself in--I hope they go after the tattoo I am sick of looking at while they're at it. One by one I feel the mosquitoes settling in a way that I simply cannot. They sink into me and I feed into them, which invites more and more. Oh, I left the kitchen light on too. That's new. The siren-whispers are a melody now. I know this song. Fuck, I left the speaker outside. Oh well. I think this could work out. I think I can do this. It's a chorus. Ouch. They are whispering questions. In a round. Sounds pretty at first but it gets painfully repetitively.
Why did you... Who do you think... Where did you even... How could you have... What were you... When were you last... Why didn't you...
It's not the bite that stings, it's the poison that itches.
It's a symphony now, a swarm. It's a cloud of tiny wings and shouted whispers of every mistake I've ever made. It's the first time I realized as a child that I wasn't invited to someone's birthday party. It's crying the entire flight from Liverpool to Chicago. It's the trail of drunken tears I left across Tampa when someone I didn't even really respect betrayed me. It's the way I can tell when I don't have someone's full attention and my insides turn into the queasy stomach I developed when I was eight years old. It's every time I had to to get on a plane when my work there wasn't even close to done. It's not having the patience sometimes. It's digging into an old notebook to be disgusted by who I was and what I was writing not but six months ago. It's that same notebook which has "be kind" written on the outside but on the inside screams "this is who you really are." It's every time I remember that I used to fight hurricanes and now the slightest summer shower ruins my trip to the grocery store and I don't leave the house for three more days. It's every last goodbye that I didn't know would be the last one. It's every book I never read, it's every bar conversation I faked my way through, it's every time I drank too much and listened to Brand New just so I could cry and try to feel something. It's that I still like Brand New. It's all the times I said maybe when I should have said no. It's the dreams I still have. It's the ambition and drive I forgot how to have. It's the dishes in the sink. It's the makeup I forgot to take off. It's wondering why they love me but being afraid to ask. Because the answer is that they really don't, because I had that chance and tossed it from the car window on the side of I-75 somewhere like the ashes of a cigarette that I didn't really want in the first place. Because of course I did. Because no one could ever love me. Not this me, not the one whispering with mosquitos at night, opening all the doors and windows and inviting all their mosquito friends. I don't even like her. It's guilt. It's shame. It's imposter syndrome. It's wanting to be seen but not wanting to be found out. It's anxiety. And it's here for me. But it's also here for me. It is so here for me.
There's a mosquito in the room. There has been a mosquito in every room, every hotel room, every his-hers-and-ours room, every space I can remember and probably the ones I don't. She's done whispering, so I think I can sleep soon.
My sisters will ask. My Bestie will check because he knows that the day after I get a lot of mosquito bites I'm not necessarily sore but I am tender. I'll hide a few bites to keep just for myself. In a time where I am so concerned about infection rates and viral outbreaks, it's nice to have a sickness that is mine and mine alone. An invisible illness. Something I can scratch at again and again when no one is looking and not have to worry about it spreading.
There's a mosquito in our room. I wonder if she's as tired as I am, especially on nights when I fight her so hard. I can't help but feel bad for her.
I wonder what eats her alive at night.
