Bzzzz. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz.
It’s a new and peculiar sound amongst the assortment of rumbles, squeaks and groans that the AC unit has been making. Sitting sadly along the window and sputtering pitifully, waiting for the service request I put in to yield any response at all. I can’t even bear to look. Instead, I do what I can to focus attention on Elizabeth’s story. She’s ranting angrily about her and Autumn’s decision to move out, motivated by their scummy landlord Bruno who owns a guitar store and three other rentals, who calls himself a businessman and is both unable and unwilling to fix their washing machine.
There is noise all around. The TV that doesn’t work much anymore, emitting a peculiar, low frequency static even while off. The CD player is always skipping and occasionally restarting the disc. Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz goes the AC unit.
I shake my head. I nod my head in agreement. I feel a bit of guilt too, that I’m not more invested in her plight, when really I should be up in arms about our shared struggle. And maybe if I had an ounce of conviction in my body I might stand up, declaring with a fiery passion my intentions to begin a grassroots alliance advocating for tenant rights and rallying against dishonest landlords.
But I just listen, and I sit with a guilt that seems to be carrying with it a greater weight than I had realized, and all the while my technologies that once brought me great joy moan and groan and chop up my CD in a way that briefly sounded cool but is now sonically abrasive and—
Breathe.
In.
Out.
Nod.
A mosquito buzzes lazily above, but it leaves us be so we return the favor. I offer Elizabeth a bit of my brownie. She takes it, not losing a step in her story. Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to have noticed any disruption in my demeanour, which I proudly chalk up to my recent attempts at meditating and letting go of earthly attachments. I have to give credit to Thomas, who lent me his books and showed me some breathing techniques he had been trying. Of course, at the time I had found it ridiculous and stupid—until, suddenly, it wasn’t. But you can’t let go of everything.
“Where’s Thomas at?” Elizabeth asks suddenly.
“Should be on his way home,” I say. “Had to stop to get some more boxes”
“Really? I didn’t think he had that much stuff.” She shakes her head, a bit of a sad smile on her face. “He’s really moving out. Never thought I’d see the day.”
It had to come eventually. Maybe I always figured it would be me to do it, to get the big job and look at Thomas, whom the word “friend” or “roommate” seems too simple and too reductive to really capture, to tell him that I’m moving on to bigger things. Maybe with awesome amenities like a gym and a heated towel rack or bidet in the bathroom. Or even a nice big balcony with a beautifully functioning door! But it wasn’t me, it was him. He told me gently, his voice low and soft like it sometimes is when greeting squirrels or birds.
I should’ve reacted better, with more enthusiasm for him. Maybe I did. I don’t remember. It’s been a blur, these past few weeks, and everything feels loud. But I know it’ll be okay. I remind myself of this as Elizabeth turns her head, her eyes immediately widening in complete shock, yelling out a “Holy fuck!” as she points her finger behind me in the direction of the kitchen window.
A cloud of mosquitoes the size of a basketball, bulging against the screen adjacent to the AC unit—which seems to be working fine after all. They move as a unit as though controlled by a hive mind. I snap out my shock and race to slam the window shut, but several stragglers have managed to squeeze through a gap in the mesh. The one earlier must have been a scout.
I scan the apartment, my face becoming hot with anger as I see a few of them in Thomas’ room, buzzing obnoxiously and hovering around his boxes as though looking for a way in. Elizabeth is behind me but fixated on the mosquito hive mind still rapping against the window, she’s stammering and trying to piece together the ecology of how this might be possible, and truthfully those questions are with me too but all I can think to do right now is save the boxes. I grab a book from my shelf, waving frantically but missing badly, destroying the binding, pages spilling everywhere. A wild swing using the backscratcher I keep in my dresser—a miss—and it splinters into pieces. Next is my own belt, which I whip around frantically. I leave several holes in the wall, but just as many dead mosquitoes. The battle is won.
“It’s okay!” I assure Elizabeth as I gasp for breath. “We still have some joint compound somewhere!”
One of the boxes has a gash in it from my belt. I scramble to wrap it up with duct tape.
“Weird reaction to this,” Elizabeth says, still in a bit of shock, looking at me with a confused smile.
We gather by the window, marveling at the cloud of mosquitoes that has now moved on to the unit beside us. Muffled screams echoing through the wall to the right tells us they must have found a way in. I re-open the gashed box, squishing in a lightly used bottle of bug spray before re-taping it again.
He’ll be home any minute now.
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