The Uber driver asks me to tell him about myself and I consider telling the truth. But only for a split second. I tell him I washed my dishes this morning. That I’m a clean person who has things in order. I tell him I can’t drink coffee or wine for these reasons. See those dirty substances take away my control but hey my boyfriend isn’t complaining. I tell him about love. How they say you can’t have it all, but I prove them wrong. Yes I do.
He asks if I’m a business woman.
I say I’m a beekeeper.
And I consider this profession for a minute. There must be plenty of openings for new beekeepers in this world. Talk about a joy you have to be passionate about.
I tell him about passion.
I tell him everything I choose in my life must be honey sweet to me. And bees don’t sting as much as you’d think. Explain that if life was coming at you fast and without understanding you’d sting too. No, you just need a gentle, controlled, hand like mine.
He says I’ve got it figured out.
I say yes.
He says I’m very pretty.
I say yes.
He says he’s glad the bees don’t sting my face.
I say never.
And I’m buzzing in my seat again.
Coat feeling a bit too tight.
He asks to call me sometime.
I say this could’ve been a controlled ride. I say he is not sweet. I say I am not a lonely passenger. I say I have a companion and I have my bees and they’re all waiting for me inside.
Good day to you sir.
Open the door. The last man is still on the couch. Covered in bees. They sting my hands when I try to touch him. Dead bees line the floor. The dirty dishes, various coffee cups, and wine glasses: they all pile up in the sink.