Waiter, There's a Fly in My...

Picture it: Evening in Mont Tremblant, Quebec, July. David and I are strolling through the resort village with another couple. We end up at another hotel, the fanciest one in town. There we are surrounded in rich woods, leather balustrades, mirrors that reflect back the glimmer of dim lights and flickering candles; we are led to the patio by a kind maitre d' and are warmly welcomed by a flock of waiters, all speaking perfect English in romantic French accents, inquiring as to our drink preferences, rushing them out to us lest we sit a moment too long without soothing libation.

The smooth, quiet lake sits sparkling behind us, a deer appears out of the woods and stares. The four of us laugh, talk, listen to background music. It is calm, tranquil, peace at its finest. There is nowhere else to be except in this very place.

I open my mouth to impart a particularly witty bit of banter when a mosquito flies in, lodging itself in the depths of my throat. I choke, cough. I laugh and admit what has befallen me. Then I continue to cough and sputter until finally, about half an hour later, the little bugger dislodges from my windpipe and goes down the hatch.

The perfect ending to a perfect evening.