She told me about her bee stings. How every sting was a microcosm of herself. I’d never seen her get stung once, and she’d never brought it up until now. She looked at the sky and then back to me. The air was filled with fresh juniper. The bees would be on the prowl soon. “Couple of years ago while cleaning out the gutter. I’m telling you they had a thing for me,” she said, hey eyes widening, lips a little pursed. “Swarmed you good?” “Cleaned my clock. Sounded like tinnitus.” Odd to hear this this now, the bees, the dewy grass, the gutter. I could see it in her face, though, concerned and devoted. She’d clearly been through it, washed over, and it was as if I could see them now, doing figure eights around her hapless body. Some people have all the luck. Others, birthdays.