The tree frogs were at it. Croaking and mating, mating and croaking, keeping Vince awake. Nothing to do but and wait for them to stop, or fatigue to overcome him.
They taunted him, stopping long enough for Vince to drift off, and then starting in again, jarring him awake. Vince never made use of the time. Dishes stayed unwashed, checkbook was left unbalanced, novel left untouched. He could have written his mother, apologized to his sister (she never went to bed before 2 a.m.).
No Vince was content to lie in bed cursing everyone.
He regretted it immediately and sought to undo bad Karma. Jimmy Smith, wailing away on “Blues In The Nightâ? would fix it. The horn section chorusing the hosts of heaven. Jimmy rolling in waves of salvation.
Made the heat bearable; made shortcomings recede. Better than Benadryl hallucinations.
Vincent wondered what the frogs did after mating. Surely they ate (and were eaten) laid eggs, avoided the daytime heat.
Everything knew what to do in it’s own season except Vince.