Or, a story about the mosquitoes Jesus sends at night to punish me for my premarital cohabitation.
I am highly allergic to mosquito bites. And by highly allergic I don't mean that every time I am bit by a mosquito it runs the risk of turning out like My Girl
. But, while most people wind up with an itchy red bump, I end up with an itchy white welt the size of a golf-ball surrounded by an itchy-redness patch the size of a softball.
So, when it is damp and slighly warm there will likely be a rogue mosquito that finds its way into our apartment. And that mosquito, without fail, finds me
. Not the Russian lover. Oh, no. He never gets bit. Only me. And while sometimes I will have standard-issue bites on the knee or the thigh or the arm, mostly they prefer to bite me on the face. More than once.On the face. Multiple times.
Which is uncomortable enough. Now imagine the bite on the eyelid, the eye slowly swelling shut, and itching all the while. How is a girl supposed to go out looking like that? Aesthetic considerations aside, eyebrows raise. And wearing sunglasses makes the eyebrows raise still further. No, my boyfriend doesn't beat me. He just uses me as a human blood sacrifice to the invertibrate kingdom.
This morning I woke up around 6:00am with one bite on my eyelid, two on my forehead, one on my thigh. I woke up to the ominous whining in my ear, a sound that makes me snap upright in terror. I spun around, and eventually found the offending insect midflight. I clapped my hands closed on him, and it looked like I got him. But unable to find the actual carcass, there was no way I was going back to laying in bed like a buffet.
The Russian lover, who woke up the moment I sat up in the reflexive motion of a military-trained male who senses too much in his sleep and that sense is always that someone has crept in to kill the woman lying next to him, witnessed my bug-killing attempt and asked, "Did it bite you on the face?"
I nodded sadly, waiting for a hug or a touch as I regressed into the mood of a wounded child. It bit me on the eye, it bit me right here. Kiss it, make it better.
The Russian lover nodded at my nod, lay back down, and rolled over.
Irritable, itching, and wide awake, I decided to make use of myself. The adrenaline from waking up to the mosquito had given me a burst of energy, and I thought it would be a good idea to wash the dishes. A few minutes later, the Russian lover came lumbering into the kitchen, eyes barely squinched open and hair askew,
"What the hell are you doing? It's 6:00am in the morning! And the banging? Why do you have to do with the banging?"
Indeed, why do I have to do with the banging? Why did you
have to do with the banging and shouting at 2:00am, tossing the bed around (and me in it, who had gone to sleep with a stomach ache) all while ranting like a crazy person at the cats? The cats who, I might add retrospectively, were more than likely sneaking around behind the bed trying to kill the bloodsucking bastard that got to me this morning.
And no, I am not coming back to bed now to cuddle you. I'm done taking the bullets in the bedroom.
But, should you wish to comfort me now or even apologize, I'll remind you that gold is the langage everyone understands. I also happen to be fluent in silver, diamonds, and all semi-precious stones.