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.