Patron Saint of Bakers and yadda and yadda and yadda and yadda.

I hate that I am that bee.

Not any special kamikaze bee.

I am THE bee that is confused for a big disgusting fly at the pastry shop. The bee  stuck on gritty chocolate smudged on a doughnut in the display. A doughnut baked by a random person far from a master pastry chef.

Her. She wears clothes fit for a security guard, down to color and cut, with matching polythene- cotton on her head.

I am that bee. I am St Honorius of a bakery right next to the pub that has a flutist/flautist for shows every single night.

He plays well. So, naturally, I want to be him because once you see me and think of a fly you run to that pub. Sit on a stool, your back to the one-man flute act and nod your head to something you shouldn’t be nodding your head to. That music requires you to sit still.

Yeah, I know I have never been inside the pub yadda and yadda and yadda-yadda so I know nothing.

But you seated there, I imagine, every night, ordering Kamikaze Cocktails in a third-rate pub. Making the barman sweat, every time you say, “One part vodka, one part triple sec and one part lime juice.” You also know nothing about vodka, oranges, lemons and that brilliant albeit stupid flute noise. They all exist because of bee pollination. Well except the vodka whose source doesn’t allow poor pollinators like me. Discrimination there, discrimination here.

And why are you even here today?

© Linda  Musita 2022