Wasp

Jay said he’d killed the wasp.

I’m scared to death of them but indifferent to everything else. It must have come in through the window after we’d gone to bed, when Jay wrapped himself around me like a human tortilla. I dozed in and out of sleep half dreaming he was a mutant wasp with a giant stinger. As I got up to pee I felt him erect against me. It was winter. I think it wanted to hibernate with the rest of its bug friends. There’s a spider that remains invisible but leaves its webbing all over the bathroom as if it owns it, covering the mirror, the toilet seat, Jay’s dirty towels and clothes. I’m not sure why I took him back. I’ll clean up, tomorrow.

I come home from work and start cooking. I pour a large amount of red wine into the cleanest coffee mug or glass available. Cheers. Later, I slather seasoning on month old meat Jay bought. He doesn’t own a fridge and sleeps on a mattress at his flat. But he has an MP3 player and a guitar. I close the curtains half mast. That way the sunset tiptoes into the living room and makes everything feel like a documentary about lions in Africa. I put on the MP3, some jazz, and let it take me back to nineteen someplace. Saxophones and cellos and wine make me want a man collapsed on top of me whilst I try to breathe. Then I throw away the meat I've just seasoned and put the bit of rump steak I bought in the oven.

Next, I chop up some veg, put it to steam, and boil some rice. I do all this while dancing, dancing with someone who isn’t Jay. The wine fly kicks the front of my head.

The wasp comes out of nowhere. It’s back from the dead! It swoops for me, buzzing heavily. I scream like I auditioned for a horror film and didn't get the part.
I run.

It chases me into the living room: around the Ikea coffee table that’s still lopsided, past the bookcase full of pirate DVDs; around the worn out but sturdy sofa. Eventually, I stop and turn to face it, clawing at it, hyperventilating. It hovers inches from my face, taunting me, hanging there as if freezing time. I grab a cushion and lob it like a woman who’s already been stung.
It doesn’t flinch.
It dives for me, a straight yellow laser, and kisses me full on the mouth, then flies away to its hiding place.

I stand absolutely still and wait for the pain. It doesn’t come.
Jay comes home.
Smells good, he laughs.
I feel betrayed.
Oblivious, he wraps his arms around me and tries to suck up my hair through his nostrils. He shoves his cold hands under my top and moves them over my front like a clumsy window cleaner. I let him do it because it feels nice. Nice is the jazz and his hands and kisses, and the pathetic knowledge that it’s all mine if I want it.
The wasp never came back.
I told him what happened.
He shrugged.
What can I say? I think I’m allergic to wasps.