Watching bees

Yesterday morning was harsh. She didn't expect to get stung...out of the blue like that. On a sunny day, in the car, on the way to the Gower, there was no warning when suddenly everything went sour. It was a lovely day. She didn't expect to get stung by his vicious tongue.

It doesn't matter what words were used. For the most part, if one bothered to dissect the sentences into words, one would find them innocent enough...but strung together they were full of bile.

And then shocked by the criticisms and by the injustice of a lovely day snatched away from her (and to her own astonishment) she began to cry, a reservoir of tears held back for how long?.. and he began to jeer and rage and turn the car around.

They had returned home in silence. She sat in the bedroom and stared out at the day, the lovely day she had been cheated of.

The bees were busy in the snowberry bush outside the window, hovering over the chewing gum pink clusters of tiny bells.

Downstairs she could hear him at the pc. He was laughing out loud, some bland American comedy.

Words, he had used swarmed around her, the ghosts of a morning laid waste.
The bees, curling up their buff coloured bottoms and quivering with their noses deep inside the petals, collected sweetness.

He came into the room, sat beside her, offered her jolly words. Dissected, they might not have been jolly but strung together that is what they were. They blew around the room. She didn't know what to do with them.

Did the bees settle on every flower? Did they visit each one, more than once?

He left the room and she felt a sticky web settle over her as it always did when he was cross.

The wind blew, the shrub moved, the bees rose, concentrated and settled again They gathered what was free and for the taking.

When he returned much later, she was still sitting there.
'What are you doing?' he asked irritated.
'Watching bees,' she said but she wasn't really; she was watching him.