It was a dreary day. The temperature had held at a balmy 62 degrees for hours and the morning dragged on, alternating between periods of heavy, grey clouds and brief drizzles. Everything seemed calm.
I finished my lunch, stacked the dishes in the sink, turned off the lights, and hurried out the door, rushing, because I was keenly aware that I had over-extended my lunch hour and needed to return to work as soon as possible. Sliding behind the wheel of the Cubbie-blue Mazda, I gave thanks to my Mom, who had loaned me the Mazda that day, so that I could still enjoy lunch at home while my Jeep was visiting my mechanic.
It was then that I spotted him. My heart froze. Clambering up my leg was my mortal enemy… the bee.
Immediately my left hand acknowledged his presence with a shoo-ing motion that remotely resembled an epileptic seizure. My right hand fumbled in vain to free my trembling body from the confines of the seatbelt from hell. After what seemed like an eternity, I sprang from the car amid a cacophony of shrieks and wails. Unharmed, but visibly shaken, I spent the next few minutes brushing aside the certain assault of the swarm of “invisible” bees.
Spying my neighbor returning, I collected myself and attempted to look normal. Then it occurred to me… where was that bee? Every fiber of my being knew that he was in that car, hiding, watching me, planning his next attack. I could feel his black, beady eyes on me, evaluating my defenses and plotting his strategy much like a hawk scrutinizes its prey. I combed the floorboards, the seats and the dash, but he was nowhere to be found.
Gathering my resolve, I stood to survey my situation and bolster my courage to retake the driver’s seat. Just then, he materialized from behind me, circling my head and dive-bombing with the vengeance of an angry bee. Swatting the air with my hands, I felt the juncture of our contact. He vanished from my sight and I took that opportunity to plunge into the car, slamming the door in my wake. Safe, at last.
As I merged onto the expressway at 55 mph, I was sure I knew his goal. That little bugger would have waited patiently, until I was engulfed in traffic, where it would have been guaranteed that not only would I feel the sting of his attack, but I would have run the risk of crashing that pretty blue Mazda, too! Smiling, I prayed that his razor sharp stinger was spent during the height of our battle, and I envisioned his little yellow-striped body writhing on the ground, feeling the grip of death over-take him. His last words… “But she smelled good…”