We were huddled under the canopy

when the bees arrived. I had not invited them

and I thought them rude for not calling first. My phone

had all its bars, so they really had no excuse. It was festival

camping, though, so perhaps I was simply

unaccustomed to the informality of this culture.

The boys around me had obviously been bullied before, for

they stiffened and sacrificed their bitten apples to the

outside of the tent area in an effort to appease

these pompous guests.

I’m sure there are some demented

rogue bees that were never properly schooled not to sting

unless an emergency arose, but I’ve never met their kind.

One particularly friendly bee came up to my nose

to introduce herself. I’d misjudged them, I realized. After

exchanging hellos, however, she quickly dropped the act and growled

around my apple. ‘It’s the bee’s food now, hun,’ said one of the hippies

across the tent from me. I ignored him and tried to reason

with the black and yellow lady. ‘You must understand

that we’ve been camping here for several

days and are nearly out of food. So unfortunately, I cannot afford

to share. Honestly, I don’t understand how these gentlemen were able

to be so generous with you, but

they are certainly better hosts than I.’

She would not listen to me, so as with spoiled

children, I ignored her whines. But she seemed very ill-mannered

indeed, bumping into my cheek as I continued to enjoy my apple.

It was a delicious apple, the manifestation of autumn’s crisp

sweetness, and I certainly was not about

to part with it. Her black feathers flicked my eyelashes in a desperate

last attempt to convince me. So I took the final bite and grinned.

What an assuming little fuck. This

was MY apple.

9/28/09