Remember that time I told you we had 19.5 pounds of peaches sitting in a box on the countertop, softening and bruising and ripening with the frantic inevitability of a large snowball teetering atop a very steep hill?
Well. We did.
It started with a mosquito (apparently). This rogue mosquito (apparently) got past our fortress of insect security (and by “fortress of security” I mean “we sleep with the windows wide open”) and, a few short nights ago, found itself in our bedroom. Allegedly, said mosquito took a liking to Ben (can’t blame it there, I suppose), and started biting. And biting. With vengeance. Apparently. As far as I’m concerned, this bit about a mosquito may or may not be true. All I know is that I woke up at 3am to blinding light and furious swatting. Half-asleep and wholly confused, I made a cotton-mouthed and squinty-eyed attempt to see what was the matter before muttering something meant to sound like “ok” and sliding back to sleep.
I woke up alone, the bedsheets next to me bunched, crinkled and cold. Interesting. Maybe Ben had woken up early and gone for a run? Overachiever. Maybe he’d bring me back a bagel?
I walked down the hall to the bathroom, thinking about bagels. I opened the door and quickly learned that, no, Ben hadn’t gone for a run. He wasn’t bringing me back a bagel. There he was, scrunched on top of our extra roll-up mattress, which he’d wedged into our tiny bathroom. The mattress looked more like a hammock, the way it was squished between the wall and the bathtub, all lumpy and misshapen in the too-small space, but, apparently, it had to be done. To escape the mosquito. Obviously.