The Wasp

​A jingle whispers in my ear as I sit on the patio listening to the dull thud of the kick drum in the café down the dusty street. It's Monaco in the summer. I've never been but that's where my mind is taking me right now. I look up at the sun, its rays beating down on me, heavy with intensity and warmth, charring my skin. It's like I'm on a grill grate, slow-roasting from the indirect flame.

Zzzzz. Zzzzz. ZZZZZ!

The black-and-yellow striped devil, with its shiny eyes and murderous face seems to blink at me as it hovers for a second in front of my eyes. I sit, trembling, sweating, not so much from the heat anymore, but from the impending sting. I hope it doesn't happen. I hope it doesn't land on my nose, its spindly legs tickling my nostrils before shoving its red-hot iron poker into my face.

ZZZZZ! Zzzzz. zzzzz.

I stand, legs trembling, aware of the sweat beads lingering on my cheek and forehead. My locked jaw unhinges and loosens. I hear the hum and rattle approaching again. An explosion of sound and wind comes around the corner. The papaya-colored sprinter flies by faster than the blink of an eye, yet the whine lingers for what feels like minutes. Is the buzzing in my mind or coming from my shoulder? I stop breathing for a moment. Chest heavy. Lungs bursting. I slowly turn my head, timidly, inching my view closer to my shoulder's crest. What would normally take a split-second feels like an age.

​The mischievous face blinks at me once again.