Nuptial Flight

or, exploding bee wieners

I text my appointment.

Running 5min behind. Had to rescue a bee.

I have a honeybee on my shoulder. Tattooed there. They bring me such joy, an avatar of little ladies who work tirelessly, dancing their truth to their sisters.

Ever since coming to Los Angeles, I am assaulted by dying bees. They’ll cling to my screen door or fall onto my plate of chilaquiles. Or in today’s case, they squirm on the top step of my office’s parking garage stairwell. At least half a dozen times, I’ve crouched down and channeled every ounce of attention I have into my fine motor skills, attempting to remove her without panicking her. Time slows to a syrupy crawl in these moments. I’m not always successful. Today at least I move her—she’s drawn to my orange sweater—to a mulched planter with succulents, and spare her being stepped on.

When I arrive at M Street to meet John, an actor I’m considering for a role, he understands completely why I’m late, even though we barely know each other. His face is compassionat…