Lying in Wait

About a year ago, I was woken by a series of mosquito stings. I sat up, turned on my bedroom light, and waited, knowing that it wouldn't be long before the little sucker would be back for more. Legs crossed, my eyes scanned the room, hoping to notice the little bugger in flight so I could track where it landed and then kill it. Suddenly I noticed a spot on the yellow surface just behind my head. My hand shot out and I slapped a bloody smear on the wall. So satisfying. I slept well that night.

Now it's past midnight, close to one, and I'm lying again in wait, bad leg elevated and the living room light dim but there. So far I've missed it on two tries. The second time, it zipped around my face and I swatted at it, surprised, like a caricature of how girls supposedly fight, hands flailing. Turning out the lights and trying to fall asleep is futile - I'll lie awake imagining the shrill buzz torturing my ear until it actually manifests itself. I can only lie here in this half-light, waiting for either another visit from the mosquito or for my six-fifteen wake up call, the much more delightful sound of my baby son giggling himself awake.