Bee vs Beekeeper's smoke

Two hours before the police came, I was heading to Woolies for some groceries. I drove with one had on the steering wheel and a refreshing fruit juice in the other while I enjoyed the last few verses of Harry Styles’ Aperture on the radio. I remember being annoyed at how the law firm ads started before the song had ended. I did not notice the car behind me.

An hour and a half before the police came, I heard the tha-thump of apples rolling out of the shopping bag in the boot. I zoned out until I came to a roundabout because the guest speaker on the radio kept complaining about schoolgirls’ skirt lengths. I thought about the essay I wrote on The Handmaids Tale as I drove past my high school and tested my brakes when a black Ute cut in front of me. I tried to remember my English teacher’s name and thought I saw an old friend sitting at my local café.

An hour before the police came, I was considering texting that old friend while I blocked spam accounts who had friend requested me on Instagram. I remember opening the back door before hanging some washing and leaving it open because of the nice breeze that had started. I remember the moment I paused Sabrina Carpenter on the stereo because a primal instinct made me hear a car pull up and park in my driveway, not on the street. I remember reciting my mum’s rego number in my head and hearing my heartbeat pick up because in no world does an Alfa Romeo SUV make the rough grumbling sound of a Ute.

When I was little and couldn’t sleep, I would imagine myself in worst-case scenarios and criticise my instincts. If the fire alarm went off right now, I’d use the chair to smash the window so the smoke could get out, I’d plan. But then I’d hurt myself from the glass ’cause I’m barefoot, I’d argue back. Although useful, these scenarios existed within the world of the little girl who was told bedtime stories and watched My Little Pony.

I never rehearsed my reaction to a stranger following me home from the supermarket, because this could only exist in the world of an adult.

Fifty minutes before the police came, the Ute's engine turned off. In eerie silence, I had locked myself in the bathroom with my phone, keys and shaky Wi-Fi. For the next forty-five minutes, I was a bee choking on smoke while a beekeeper hunted for the delicious product of that bee’s single, biological purpose.

I prayed my text had sent.

Five minutes before the police came, my old friend texted me. She said the Ute had been reported chucking laps near a school at pickup time and it was lucky I had recognised her in uniform. She said I have more strength than bees because bees don’t invent what-if scenarios or choose to hide; they always fall asleep from the beekeeper’s smoke, or die defending their precious jewel.

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