“ribbit, ribbit”

I used to visit two of my closest friends of the time at their shared apartment in a complex that I would later inhabit, albeit regrettably after their departure. Living in that apartment complex felt like a rite of passage, a fleeting moment of youthful exuberance in our small town where life swirled with limited possibility and uncertainty.

One particular night stands out, the kind that lingers in memory like a half-remembered song. We were acting the fools, the air thick with laughter and the intoxicating buzz of cheap wine. Amidst our revelry, I was captivated by the sight of tiny frogs, no more than an inch in size, leaping across the cracked sidewalks and paved walkways. Their innocent joy contrasted starkly with the heady chaos of our gathering, as if they were the unwitting stars of a show meant only for the night.

Below my friends’ apartment lived a tenant of peculiar charm—a man with special needs whose spirit shone bright amidst his quirks. It was he who would later cast me into the moral abyss of a most unusual request: whether to procure for him the rather questionable DVDs he so ardently desired. On his door, he had affixed a notepad, a simple yet poignant reminder of the life around us. The first note read, “Watch out for the little frogs,” an admonition that echoed through the night like a whisper of innocence.

As the evening stretched on, imbued with a sense of mischief and a little too much drink, I found myself stepping outside for a smoke, a brief escape into the cool night air. In a fit of audacity, I replaced his earnest warning with a more playful missive: “Ribbit, ribbit. —The Frog” and knocked on his door before running away. It was a small act of defiance, a reminder that life, in all its absurdity, could be both serious and silly. I collected at least half a dozen of those charming frogs into an empty red Solo cup, without any plans for them.

The details of that night have since blurred, the laughter fading into a pleasant haze. I must have found my way to the couch, surrendering to slumber, for I awoke with the first light of dawn. There, beside my glasses, lay the empty Solo cup, abandoned and forlorn, a relic of a night lost to memory. In a sudden wave of guilt, I recalled the little frogs and hurriedly disposed of the cup in the kitchen bin, scanning the linoleum and carpet for signs of my lost companions. To my dismay, they were nowhere to be found, leaving me with a sense of responsibility unfulfilled.

With immediate thought to my friends, I slipped away, troubled by the prospect of them wondering why I had left so abruptly. After all, the last time I had made a hasty exit, it was after a rather scandalous interlude with my friend’s brother, a brief encounter marked by the thrill of secrecy and the fear of discovery. She had not been angry, as I later learned, but I was certain that releasing frogs into their home would elicit a far greater scandal than a youthful indiscretion.

In the quiet solitude of my thoughts, I entertain the idea of owning a pet frog. If I could ever embrace such a responsibility, I would choose either a small like the drunkenly domesticated variety or a magnificent American bullfrog, its size a testament to the grandeur of nature. I recall a current neighbor’s furious shout, threatening to kill a loud frog if it did not belong to us, the absurdity of the situation heightened by the fact that my husband was entirely nude in the hot tub at the time. I wished I could have witnessed that, but alas, I only heard the tale later, filled with laughter and incredulity.

I picture you, dear frog, leaping across my expansive terrace, adding a unique charm to my environment and delighting my senses. I find myself contemplating the extravagant notion of enclosing the space in glass, creating a two hundred fifty square foot jungle for your amusement. These thoughts dance in my mind on this night, a time when I find myself in the throes of ovulation, yet entirely devoid of any chance for fertilization. And so I sit here with this, thoughts of a frog.