Photo by Crista Cloutier
It was a hot day so I opened the big doors and settled down for an undeserved siesta. When I woke, it seemed that all of nature had moved in. Ants covered the floor. A bird perched on the shelf. A lizard slithered toward the fireplace. And somehow a bee got inside my shirt. Now, I’ve had a bee in my bonnet before, figuratively speaking, and a boy in my pants, but never a bee in my shirt. It, the bee —not the boy— elicited a scream and a wrathful display of outrage. I threw off my clothes and — still talking about the bee here — it stung me twice before dying a horrible death. I’ve always thought I was allergic to bees so I prepared for my own death as I don’t know how to call an ambul ance, nor say the French word for bee, or even my address. It all seemed too much, so I opened a bottle of champagne and dug out some caviar.
“This,” I thought, “is a good way to die.”
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“abeilles”. The funny thing is, it sounds like “abay,” like you’re saying “a bee” with an English accent. I’ve just been stung by abeilles.