The sting that wasn't

The bee’s wings looked like hazel eyes you could bore through. Against the cream-coloured bathroom tiles bathed in yellow light, I could see little flecks of brown in it. It was transfixed in mid-air. Why was it motionless, why was it insulting the wings? Then, I thought – we have feet, but do we walk all the time, do we run, do we run away?

It could have been pondering. I wanted it to go out. Bees are not meant for homes. Its body was taut. There was silence, the only sound was of the remnants of water from the tap. This bee did not drone. Was it a quiet stinger? Were we both challenging each other?

I have not been stung by a bee, but I am afraid of it. I began imagining a needle prick that would redden into a large patch with a honeycomb pattern or the bee trying to enter my ear, blocking all sound except for the buzz. After a few minutes, I tired of it and walked out. It wasn’t easy. It never is. The thought of the bee somewhere around ready to attack remained. Instead of paranoia, it became a temptation…those eyes-wings, those downy legs, that taut body.

Hours passed and I got no glimpse, heard no sound. That night, as I raised my legs on the footrest I saw something on the floor. It was the bee. Motionless. What did it want from me? Why did it not just take it? Do bees ask for permission? Do they wait for a hint, do they wish to be teased and cajoled to do what they want to do? Will they desist if they are rebuffed?

I went closer. I could not look into those eyes. They were not hazel anymore but a dark muddy brown. It was dead. I did not know what to do. It had wasted those wings, it had wasted its sting. Anger was building up. I did not want its rebirth so soon. My feet were on its now limp body. I stamped hard on it and picked it up with a face tissue and threw it away. My slip-ons had traces of its blood. On the black soles it was not visible, but I knew. I had killed the dead. I often have to.

When I returned I saw something left. A wing had come off…a memory was still there.