Notebook

Last night in bed, I was tormented by a mosquito. At two a.m., I was awakened by the tiny creature whining around my head, looking for a likely place to land and have a meal. It was warm in the room. Outside, the air had stopped moving. There were two or three minutes of silence, then drowsiness, then . . . more whining. This happened at least half a dozen times. Finally, I got up and stumbled through the house, having no idea where I was going or why. I came back to bed a few minutes later. I closed my eyes and . . . there it was again. I looked at my wife. For some reason, the mosquito was leaving her alone. It was obviously a case of no rest for the wicked. So I started going over the mistakes I�ve made. I began with the most recent, because at the moment those were the easiest to remember. Rude, ill-tempered behavior. Eating too much ice cream. Impatience. Talking too loud. Judging by the mosquito�s persistence, I was on the right track. Soon, though, I got tired of picking on myself and started thinking about stories I could write. I drew a blank. Just as well. If I had thought of something, then I would have been obliged to get out of bed again and jot down the idea. And if that had happened, I probably would have had to turn the computer back on and write the whole story. And since writing stories is all I�ve been doing lately, that hardly seemed like a good idea. What I needed was a rest, which is why I had gone to bed in the first place. The mosquito, however, had other ideas. Life is short, it whined. Drink and be merry. After awhile, I began to see its point. No one knows how long he has. I certainly don�t. On good days, it seems I have about two weeks, maybe three at the most. So what was I doing in bed? Wasn�t that kind of dull, considering the circumstances? My wife I could understand. She was exhausted from running the household and keeping me in line. She deserved a break. But me? What do I do? Write and complain? How did that entitle me to a night�s rest? I looked at the shadows on the walls, the piles of books and newspapers and magazines. Again, the mosquito whined. After awhile, though, it stopped whining � not because I had killed it, but because it had apparently become bored with the idea. I fell asleep. A little after five, I woke up again. It was time to start a new day. On a small piece of paper I wrote, �Last night in bed, I was tormented by a mosquito.� Then I showered, made coffee, and wrote another story. We�ll see what tonight brings.