Lake

He lay in bed staring at the dead mosquito that was still stuck to the ceiling six months later. The buzzing had kept him up that night and he had chased the bug around his room for minutes before standing on his bed and flinging his hand against the ceiling as the mosquito took a rest, failing to draw blood from the plaster, instead dying from its reckless hunger. He remembered sitting with Elizabeth the other night, her eyes red and tear tinged as she lay on his chest, telling him about how she was scared to be without him. He held her close and listened to the leaves as they sighed relief in the refreshing sweeps of the summer wind. He heard a loon's quivering call and thought about who or what it was for, what it meant. A mosquito landed on his bare thigh, itching his skin with its legs as it wandered, trying to find a place to draw blood. He didn't kill it, or even brush it away, but kept his arms around Elizabeth and listened to the cries of the loons.