Mosquitos

She couldn’t stop scratching at her ankles. It was like as soon as she pulled her jeans off her skin, the itch that had been sealed was released with the full force of a prison break.

She touched her ankles, disgusted by the bites that looked like the work of fleas, instead of mosquitos.

It was only in recent years after too much time on the internet and living between the swampy cities of D.C. and Philadelphia that she noticed the insect had taken a particular liking to her.

For example, when she took a phone call in the courtyard outside her apartment early in her sophomore year of college and awoke the next day with 30 bites on each leg. It was still a sweltering 80 degrees then but she had no choice but to wear pants to cover the red blotches covering her legs.

An evening game of corn hole down the jersey shore was harmless to others but treacherous for her. Citronella candles and thick smogs of spray were used in efforts to mitigate the damage.

But this year, it didn’t end with Labor day. Here she is, a week into October ready to skin her own ankles out of frustration; the dying bastards were sucking the life out of her as the weather cooled and threatened to send them away.

Her mom joked that maybe they’re (she suffers from it as well) too sweet. And to that I say- bite me.

But please don’t.

Originally published at https://emilybarbara.squarespace.com on June 19, 2021.