Lemons, butter, French men that look like Ludo Lefebvre and talk incessantly and loudly about American TV, knees, Fresh litchi sugar perfume, copies of Alain de Botton's How Proust Can Change Your Life, orange RISD bags, glasses of Rose.
Two days ago, I liberated a bee from a glass of Rose, and ungratefully, she came back for more. I flagged down the waiter. "There was a bee in my Rose but I fished her out and she flew away. Now she's at the next table. Can I have another glass?" He gave me a French look and took the glass away wordlessly.
I don't understand the shrieking reactions people have to bugs, jumping at the sight of spiders, ducking away from bees, squealing at the sight of cockroaches. I generally scoop them up in a piece of paper and toss them outside the front door. Perhaps I haven't been socialized properly as a girl/woman. But I can't bring myself to shriek and make a scene.
Two weeks ago there was an article about a man who travels the world and documents insect stings. he characterizes the pain the way some people catalog wines, "an ache, a tender burn, a sharp, quick razor cut." He has no associates, no colleagues willing to confirm his findings. Such lonely and painful work. It sounds almost as bad as writing.
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