The Hypothetical Deaths Of Hank And Doris.

Well, he started, I don't think I really ever loved her anyway. It's like, she just wasn't the one, you know?

When I first saw him, she mused, I thought "Now here's a man I could love." And I thought that I would. That I'd learn to, maybe, somehow. But I didn't.

I tried, he continued, but it just never felt like really, 100% right, you know? Like I'd do all these things for her, things I'd got off movies or books or something. But they were just rip-offs. And I'd feel kinda shitty after. Cause she'd go, you know, all mushy and I-love-you-darling and all. And I'd have to say the same things back, and I'd be lying.

I guess after a while I began to feel some.. affection for him. His presence, his steady income, it was nice. And he loved me so much, I could never bear to hurt him so. Not by telling him I didn't feel the same way.

I mean, it's not like I didn't like her. She doesn- well that's didn't now isn't it- look half bad, and she was plenty sexy when she was younger. I mean, the sex was alright. She made breakfast, and stuff like that. And we hardly ever fought as well, you know? So yeah, I was happy to have her around that's for sure.

Fond, that's the word. On a scale ranging from Infatuation to Truly-Madly-Deeply, it probably lies somewhere ambivalently in the middle. Or maybe it belongs to another scale altogether, to one for pets and young children. Fond. Like he was nice to have around, but there never was this urge to be with him, nor even to be close to him.

But life goes on eh?, he shrugged. I mean I gotta learn to do my laundry and all, it's gonna be a pain. And I guess I'll miss knowing someone else's around even when I'm reading the papers or watching a game or something. Like there's somebody there, you know?

The little things. The warmth of a thigh on a long journey home. Waking up to the sounds of a man brushing his teeth. Having someone to talk to at the end of the day. It's always the little things you miss the most isn't it?

The House Of Bees.

"When you can hold a bee in your hands and not be stung, that's when you'll know you're in love."

That's what mama told me when I was younger. What she didn't tell me was, that's the easy part. The difficult part comes later.

One fine day, in the throes of youth and passion, I did it. I went and found myself a bee, I brashly made a grab for it. After holding it for two minutes I released the bee unstung, supremely buoyed by the knowledge that I was, indeed and at long last, in love.

All's well that ends well, you might think. But I'm miserable now.

I don't know if I'm in love anymore. I don't want to know. So I've developed this overwhelming phobia of bees. In fact, I get twitchy everytime I hear even the faintest of buzzes. I've got buzzophobia.

At least I can pretend I'm still in love. I mean, I might be. I can still say "I'm in love" and not know for a fact I'm lying. That's good. That's what I need.

But I'm certain the bees are out to get me. I've gotten all these nets and wire mesh installed so they can't get at me. I found this anti-bee device that's supposed to emit at a frequency that keeps bees away. It's gonna cost me hundreds and I'm almost certain it's not gonna work, but I've gotta try everything.

I've gotta do all I can to keep the bees away.