Page 12 of Bad at Love
I nod. “I also have host hives, where people host the hives in their yard in exchange for some of the honey. I do all of the work though.” I clear my throat, knowing I already talked about this all on the first date. “But today was just my own hive acting up. I wanted to take some pictures and the guard bees weren’t having any of it.”
“Don’t you wear a suit?”
“It depends. Normally just for collecting the honey or taking out the frames and inspecting the comb. But you can still get stung through a suit if you’re not careful. They aren’t magic force fields.”
“It doesn’t hurt?”
I shrug. “It hurts less and less over time.”
“Because your body is building up a resistance to the venom,” he says.
“Exactly,” I tell him with a smile, loving when he goes into doctor mode. “I just hate that they die after they sting me. I don’t like to lose any of them.”
He adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose and gives me a curious look. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the “I’m not sure what to do with this person” look. Honestly, I’m a little surprised he’s still giving it to me after two dates already. He should know who he’s dealing with.
Maybe calm down and stop talking so fast, I remind myself. All that excess caffeine has not done me any favors. I’ve been bouncing in my chair and tapping my sandals on the floor for the majority of the steak tartare appetizer.
“More wine?” the waiter says, appearing with the bottle.
“Yes, more,” I cry out, immediately holding out my glass. I know that the doctor is giving me yet another one of those looks but I ignore it. Wine will counteract the racing heart.
The waiter fills it up, and I try and pace myself as I have a few gulps.
Except I finish the whole glass.
It’s red wine, too. Not exactly chuggable.
David is watching me with mild horror.
“I’ve had a rough day,” I explain to him, even though it’sa lie. I’m not about to tell him that this whole date is making me inexplicably nervous.
“Looks like it,” he says, staring at my welts.
Right, well I guess I’ll just blame it all on the bees.
“This restaurant has very high ratings on Yelp,” David goes on, clearing his throat.
I just smile and catch the eye of the waiter, subtly beckoning him over. And by subtle, I mean I’m jerking my head violently.
“Something wrong?” David asks.
“Do you want to split a bottle?” I ask him. “I think all these glasses of wine are going to add up.”
He opens his mouth to say something. Then closes it and nods. “Sure.”
Done.
I get a bottle of red and then proceed to drink most of it, David only having a glass and tiny sips.
Shit.He doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m annoying. He thinks I’m a prude. He thinks I’m a drunk. He doesn’t think I’m pretty.
All these thoughts start bombarding my head.
“Hey,” I say to him. “Tell me about the worst break-up you’ve ever had.”
He frowns at me. “Is that appropriate conversation for a date?”
I shrug and have another swallow of wine. “Probably not. Who cares?”
