I get a coffee, take out my phone, and start looking through my Instagram DMs.
Marina
“A Pain That I’m Used To”
* * *
“What, uh, what happened to your arms?” David asks me.
I look down at my arms, my eyes drifting over the welts. Sometimes I barely even see them, and now I’m realizing how odd it must look, me sitting across from this dashing doctor in a slinky sleeveless top in a nice restaurant, my arms covered with puffy red marks. I should have worn a cardigan.
“The girls were a bit cranky this morning,” I tell him.
“The girls?”
“My bees,” I remind him.
“Ah yes,” he says with a nod. “Now are these your bees or someone else’s? Didn’t you say you do live hive removals?”
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’s a 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?”
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll tell you mine,” I tell him. “I’ve never actually been dumped! Can you believe it? No, you probably can’t.”
“You’re very lucky,” he says, his words measured.
“Lucky?” I laugh. “I’m not lucky. It just means I’ve never actually been in a proper relationship. Can you believe that? I make it to the third date and then guys just ghost. You do know we’re on our third date right now, don’t you?”
He clears his throat, looking totally uncomfortable. “I am aware.”
“Right. So after this, you’ll ghost, you’ll do what they all do. You won’t even tell me that you don’t want to see me anymore, you’ll just stop returning my calls and texts, and if we finally do speak and I bring up plans, you’ll be busy. That’s the way it goes. Look, okay, sometimes I’ve gone on more than three dates but it always ends the same way.”
He stares at me in such a way that reminds me of my aunt when she was trying to deal with my panic attacks. “I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink.”
I laugh. “I’m fine. Seriously. Too much coffee is what it is.”
I reach for my glass but he puts his hand out to stop me. “Marina, it’s okay. We’re just having dinner. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
“Nervous?” I squeak. “Who said I was nervous?”
Okay, I’m aware I’m starting to slur a bit. I attempt to correct it. “I. Am. Totally. Fine. And. Sober,” I say, extra-enunciating my words. “This. Is. A. Great. Date.”
Then the waiter comes by, putting down our plates of pasta.
It’s like I’ve never seen food in my entire life. I start wolfing it down, going through the linguine like I might never eat again.
Until…
Until…
Ohmigod.
The pasta is not going down.
It’s stuck in my throat.
Ohmigod, am I choking?
I glance at David with wide eyes.
Keep calm, keep calm, see if you can get through this without anyone knowing.
“Marina?” David asks.
I nod, my face going red, cheeks puffing out, trying to swallow down the pasta but shit, shit, shit, it’s not moving.
I’m choking.
I point at my throat as in, a little help here?
“Oh my god!” David exclaims, loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to look at me and erupt into murmurs of “Good gracious!” and “I think that girl is choking!” At any moment I expect Mrs. Doubtfire to come running across the restaurant to tackle me.
But instead it’s David, who, rather calmly I might add, comes around the back of the chair, pulls me to my feet, and starts doing the Heimlich.
Thanks to his skills, it only takes two thrusts of his fist into my abdomen before I’m choking up the linguine all over my shirt.
On one hand, yay I’m alive and I think my date just saved my life.
On the other, everyone is staring at me expectantly. The entire restaurant is in a hush. I start picking off the linguine like it’s lint and then turn to face everyone with a big smile. Because I’m fine.
Really.
They need to stop staring.
“Hey, did you know that bees communicate to each other through the waggle dance?” I say to the patrons, hoping they find this fascinating. “It goes a little bit like this.”
And then I try and imitate the figure eight and circular movement of a bee’s waggle dance, shaking my butt all over the place.
“Marina,” David says, grabbing my elbow and interrupting me mid-waggle. “You should sit down.”
I grumble and let him put me back down in the chair.
The wine is taken away.
I drink some water.
I don’t dare finish my food.
Soon the date is over and David is leading me out of the restaurant and to his car. “I’m going to drop you off at home. Do you have
anyone there who takes care of you?”
I realize that aside from superficial talk, I don’t think I’ve really let David on to who I really am. Am I always like this? In my drunkenness I say, “I live alone, aside from my landlord, and she’s ancient. You don’t know anything about me, do you?”
He gives me a steady look. “Marina, it’s only been a few dates.” He pauses, opening up the passenger side door. “But I hear what you say about ghosting and only an immature man would do such a thing to you. So I won’t ghost. Unfortunately, I don’t think there will be a fourth date.”
“Why not?” I ask as I get in the car, even though I know the answer.
“There’s someone out there much better suited for you than me,” he says with utmost diplomacy. Then he shuts the door, gets behind the wheel, and drives me home.
Naomi can’t stop laughing.
“It’s not funny,” I tell her over the phone, even though it feels good to have her laugh for once, despite being the butt of the joke. I can’t remember the last time she sounded even remotely happy.
“Oh, but it is,” she says. “Marina, I can’t believe you. And yet I can. I mean, I’m glad you didn’t choke to death but did you really have to start dancing?”
It’s the next morning and I’m lying in my room on the phone, trying to come to grips with what happened last night. The end of me and Doctor David.
“Well, there goes date number three, just like I predicted. I’m never ever going to get a boyfriend.”
She clears her throat and says soberly, “That’s not such a bad thing.”
I sigh. Naomi is still technically a newlywed, having married Robert last year. He seemed like a nice enough guy and had all you needed on paper to be good husband material—a great job as an investment banker, fit body, a great face and smile, wasn’t too uptight nor did he act like a teenager. Naomi was swept away and under by his charm and fell for him quickly. And in a very bad way. I’d never seen the normally grumpy and cynical Naomi so crazy over a guy before.
Which explains why they got married after only four months of being together. I didn’t express any concerns, other than the required, “Are you sure? You haven’t known each other that long,” but Naomi assured me this was it, she was in love, and that was that. And considering I’ve never been in love before, I knew I had to take her word for it.
She was happy too. It was amazing, albeit jarring, to see. But now…well the honeymoon is more than over, and her marriage is starting to crumble.
“Did Robert end up agreeing to counseling?” I ask her gently.
She sighs. “Yes. But it took a good screaming match to get there. The fool doesn’t even get it, doesn’t understand why. I tell him my concerns, that I think he’s stepping out, and he’s just not budging. He’s lying. You know he’s lying.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “So, another fight?”
“A huge one.” She sounds so tired.
“You should have called me,” I tell her.
“You were on a date. I’ve interrupted your dates before and I don’t want to keep doing that.”
“Naomi, believe me, it’s okay. Call me next time and I’ll pick you up. You can stay the night.” I pause. “Why not come over tonight?”
“Nah. I should be here. He said he would watch a movie with me. Anyway, I’m sorry I laughed at your disaster date.”
I chuckle. “Well, it was a disaster. But hey…that’s my life. I’m inherently undateable.”
“Marina, you’re not.”
“I am. I should probably start putting out on the first date.”
“Look, honey. I’m not going to tell you how to date because Lord knows it hasn’t worked out so well for me. But you do what you feel comfortable with. If you need to sleep with a guy on the first date in order to keep him interested, there’s something wrong with him. You do you.”
“But the more I do me, the longer I stay single. I wish I could be like Laz and just get a girl with the snap of my fingers.”
“Girls are just as complicated.”
“You know what I mean. He gets the opposite sex without any effort. He dates them for months, then breaks up with them. He’s not getting rejected, he’s not getting hurt. Then there’s me, who gets so far and then the guy just vanishes. They all vanish. They can’t be bothered getting to know me anymore. Fuck. Sometimes I just want to get laid.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that either,” she says. “I would if I could.”
“You can,” I tell her. Though I know she won’t. She won’t let go of her upper hand.
“When he goes low, I go high,” she says. “But still…some honest dick wouldn’t be a bad thing.”
I burst out laughing. “Honest dick. I like that.”
“Let me know if you find any.”
After we hang up, I discover a text from Laz.
How was last night?
I respond Shitty.
He texts back: How about we do lunch and go to B&N?
I smile, my heart growing warmer. Man, if he wasn’t my friend, Laz would be the perfect boyfriend. Lunch in Studio City usually means scarfing down tasty treats at Umami Burger and then heading across the street to the Barnes and Noble that they repurposed in an old theatre. Literally my idea of heaven and it’s become almost a tradition for us after we’ve had a bad day.
OK. I have to write a blog post and get ready. Pick me up in an hour.
Why can’t you pick me up?
Because you’re the guy and this is your idea. See you then.
My blog post doesn’t take too long. Usually I update it every other day or so while I make it a point to constantly upload to Instagram. My Instagram and social media feeds are the easiest part for me. I have a huge database of microphotographs I’ve taken of my hives as well as bees out and about. There’s a wealth of information about them I can share, so I usually just post a pic and a few lines about it. Sometimes it’s me doing a hive removal and showing followers how insane some of the natural hives can get. Sometimes it’s just of the queen, when I find her. Other times I do slow-motion photography of bees.
I know it’s an odd career to have, but I love it. When I went to university and got my bachelor of science, I got a minor in entomology. To be honest, I’m not a fan of bugs in general and even more so after studying them, but I’ve been fascinated by bees for a long time. Growing up just outside San Diego, my mother had several hives in our backyard and a huge garden. Every single happy childhood memory came from being in that garden with her.
My heart clenches at the thought and I take a deep breath through my nose, closing my eyes and centering myself. I’ve been trying to wean myself off of medication lately through breathing exercises and I’m not quite sure if it’s working.
I go back to finishing up the blog post then wonder if there’s something else I need to do. I started Palm Trees & Honey Bees two years ago, not really sure where my focus would be, but I was determined to become a full-time beekeeper. I finally quit my job as manager of a local garden center a few months ago when I officially reached my goal but even so, I need to expand and find new ways of creating revenue aside from educational classes and hive removals. The actual sale of honey, which I do out of the garage of the place I’m renting, doesn’t add up to much either.
Soon Laz is pulling up to the house in his vintage Camaro. It was originally a gift from his stepfather, and for various reasons he didn’t want to accept it. Now, thanks to Laz’s success as a poet, he’s been able to buy the car outright.
It’s black and sleek, with red leather seats, and it’s sexy as hell. I lock up the studio (which is pretty much a guest house) and make my way around the narrow slice of pool, a layer of leaves covering it, that sits between my place and the main house. As I walk through the side gate, the fig leaves brushing against me, I can feel Barbara, my landlord, watching me through the blinds.
I give her a wave without even looking at her and hurry across the lawn to the car.
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“You know, I’d love to meet her one day,” Laz says to me as I climb in the passenger seat, nodding at the windows where the blinds are moving.
“Barbara?” I ask. “Good luck with that.”
“You said she enjoys handsome men,” he says with a waggle of his brows.
I roll my eyes. “Yes. She did. In the forties and fifties. She says you scare her.” I wave my fingers at him. “You know, the piercings and the tattoos and all.” With his aviator shades and leather jacket, he looks particularly badass today.
“She doesn’t know about my dick piercing, does she?”
I punch his arm, trying not to think about his dick. It’s hard with the pants he wears sometimes and I will myself to keep my eyes from drifting down to his crotch. “Grow up.”
In July I’ll be at the two-year mark of living at Barbara Sullivan’s place. For those that don’t know, Barbara Sullivan was a semi-famous actress from Hollywood’s golden age. She’s pretty much Gloria Swanson’s character from Hollywood Boulevard, all reclusive and living in the past, dressing up in old fancy gowns and piling on the pancake makeup from ye old days. She usually played the woman in B-movies that someone like Clarke Gable cast aside for someone else.
But despite Barbara’s borderline agoraphobia and quirks, we get along really well and I love living there. The property consists of the main house, the pool, the guest house, and the garage, on a half-acre backed onto the dry craggy hills of Coldwater Canyon. She’s owned the house forever, and because of that, the rent I pay is pretty cheap too.
Plus, she gets companionship and honey out of the deal. That’s when she feels like talking. Most of the time she watches old clips of herself and smokes a carton of Camels. After my mother died, I really missed having someone older to talk to on the regular and offer advice. I can’t talk to my dad, so Barbara is a pretty good substitute with some amazing stories to keep you entertained.
She has yet to meet Laz, though, or any of my friends. Like I said, she has her quirks.
“So, are we going to talk about it?” Laz asks as we start cruising down the street. It’s May and the jacarandas are in full bloom, one of my favorite times of the year. I roll down the window and hang my head half out, closing my eyes, focusing on the smell of the flowers above all the smog.
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