That’s Miller. He’s got that blue windbreaker on, the one with the zipper stuck at the bottom. He’s just walking past, head down, ignoring the wasp swarming near the passenger window. It’s trapped in the cabin, frantic. Tapping against the glass. He doesn’t even look. Just keeps walking toward the bus stop. I mean, not our Miller. Ours is still supposed to be ten minutes late. Focus. The wasp is hitting the same spot.
Right. The wasp. It’s doing that frantic little circuit, like it’s trying to solve a geometry problem it hasn’t been taught yet. Miller—wait, not our Miller—does he have that look on his face? The one that says he’s forgotten his keys again. I saw a guy like that yesterday, fumbling with his wallet while the bus pulled away. He just stood there. Didn’t even wave. And now this wasp is just… tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. It’s driving me insane, actually. I swear I can hear it over the hum of the fridge back home. Or is it the radiator? I think it’s the radiator. Anyway, Miller’s gone. We’re waiting for the other Miller. The late one. Who probably lost his keys too.
Please stop. You’re imagining sounds now. The fridge isn’t humming. The radiator is silent. Focus on the window. The wasp is still there. It’s not tapping; it’s buzzing. Low, angry. Just watch it. If we keep talking about keys or buses or fridges, we’ll miss him. And then we’ll be standing here until noon, arguing about acoustics while the actual Miller walks right past us without noticing. Look at the glass. Don’t think. Just watch the wing.
The wing. Right. It’s vibrating. A blur. I can see the individual hairs on it, if I squint, but that makes it worse, doesn’t it? It looks like a miniature engine failing. And the glass is just… there. Cold. Smudged with someone else’s thumbprint from yesterday. I touched it. I think I touched it. My finger’s still cold. Miller’s not here. The other one is gone. We’re just sitting in the draft. The window is open an inch. Just enough for the smell of exhaust to get in. Thick. Black. It coats the back of my throat. Why did I buy that particular shirt? The collar itches. It’s been itching since Tuesday. Or was it Wednesday? I can’t feel my left hand. That’s not good. Is that normal? Keep watching the wing. Don’t look at the hand.
Your hand is fine. It’s cold because you’re holding still too long. Stop talking about the shirt. The collar isn’t itching; your mind is making noise. Look at the wasp. It’s circling the smudge now. That’s your thumbprint. See how it’s stuck? It’s not an engine failing. It’s just biology. Tired, hungry biology. The exhaust smell is probably gas from the bakery downstairs, not the street. Breathe through your nose. Count the wing beats. One, two, three. If you stop focusing on the wing, you start noticing the itch. Don’t let the itch win. Watch the blur.
Biology. Right. Hungry. It’s starving in there. We’re the ones who are full. Sitting here, digesting nothing but the air. Three. Four. Five. The smudge is yellowing. My thumbprint. I wonder if I wiped it on something else before that. Grease? Maybe from the sandwich I didn’t eat. The bread was stale. Dry. It crumbled in my mouth like dust. I should have eaten it. You don’t throw away food. It’s a principle. Or laziness. Hard to tell the difference now. Six. Seven. The wing is getting blurry. Or my eyes are. Is it Tuesday again? I feel like it’s Tuesday. Everything tastes like Tuesday. Dry. Bitter. Don’t look at the hand. Watch the blur. The blur is moving left. Why is it moving left? It should go up. Up is freedom. Down is... where are we?
It’s moving left because it’s chasing the light. Stop analyzing the physics. You’re tired. The sandwich was yesterday’s. You ate it. I saw the wrapper in your pocket. Dry bread, bitter mouth. It’s just hunger talking. Look at the smudge. It’s not yellowing; it’s drying. The wasp is desperate. That’s all. No mystery. No Tuesday. Just a bug hitting glass. Watch the left turn. It’s looping. Keep your eyes on the loop. Don’t let your mind wander to pockets or bread or doors. The door is still closed. We are still here. Watch the wing.
The loop. It’s going round and round. Like a hamster wheel but with more death. My pocket. Yeah. The wrapper. Crinkled. Sticky residue. I should take it out. But if I move, the wasp might leave. Or hit me in the eye. It’s a gamble. I hate gambling. Especially with insects. They don’t keep score. The smudge is drying. Cracking. Like mud in the driveway. Remember the driveway? The cracks we tried to fill with that stuff from the hardware store. The cheap stuff. It fell out in a week. Same as the conversation we had about… what was it? Taxes? Paint? Nothing sticks. The wasp is smaller now. Or further away. Perspective is a liar. Watch the wing. Just the wing. It’s a fan. A tiny, desperate fan. I’m tired of watching fans. They never move the air. They just make heat. And noise. And the itch. Why does the itch feel like it’s under my skin? Not on it. Under. Deep. In the joint.
Stop digging. Your joint is fine. It’s your nerves. You’re overthinking the heat. Focus on the glass. The wasp is still there. It hasn’t left. It’s just adjusting its angle. The cheap sealant failed because the surface wasn’t prepped. Like your hands. Clean them. Wipe the pocket. The wrapper is trash. Throw it out. Now. Don’t think about the driveway. Don’t think about the paint. Think about the wing beat. One, two. It’s slowing down. Or you’re slowing down. Keep your eyes on the smudge. Don’t let the itch win. Watch the blur.
Clean my hands. Right. I’m covered in… what exactly? Dust? The static from the couch? I rub my thumbs together. It sounds like sandpaper. Gritty. I look at the smudge again. It’s still there. Stubborn. Like that time I tried to wash out the ketchup stain from the white rug. It never came out. Just turned brown. Then black. Then invisible. A ghost stain. That’s what this is. A ghost wasp. Ghost Miller. Ghost Tuesday. The wing beat. One. Two. Three. It’s slower. Or maybe I’m holding my breath. I can’t feel my lungs anymore. Just the itch. Behind the eye. Behind the teeth. I should sneeze. But if I move, the wasp escapes. Or flies into my mouth. Better the eye. Clean hands. Sticky fingers. The wrapper is gone. Or it’s still there. I don’t know. I never throw things away. I just move them. To the pocket. To the shelf. To the floor. Watch the blur. The blur is fading. Is it dusk? Why is it getting dark inside? The glass is cold. I’m cold.
Stop it. You’re shaking. The room isn’t getting dark; you’re tired. The wasp is still there. It’s just resting. You’re holding your breath because you’re scared. Scared of what? A bug? A ghost? Get a grip. Look at the wing. It’s not fading. It’s catching the dim light. The glass is cold because the window is open. That’s all. Breathe. Slowly. Out. In. Don’t move. Don’t sneeze. Just watch the blur. It’s steady. It’s alive. We’re waiting. Don’t let go now. Watch the wing.
Breathe. Out. In. It sounds so easy when you say it. Like blowing out candles. Except there’s no cake. Just dust. And the wasp. Resting. Is it dead? That would be a relief. A static image. No more looping. No more tapping. Just… stillness. But it’s moving. Tiny twitches. Like a dream. I’m dreaming this. Miller is a dream. The bus stop is a dream. I’m lying down somewhere soft. Carpet? Grass? No, that itch is back. Scratching at the bone. I can’t stop it. My hand twitches. Just a little. Near the glass. Don’t look. Watch the wing. It’s catching the light. Dim. Gray. Like the sky before rain. But it’s not raining. Just damp. Cold air hitting my neck. I shiver. The wrapper crinkles in my pocket. Loud. Too loud. It’s echoing. In my skull. Miller isn’t coming. He never comes. We’re just watching a bug die. Slowly. Painfully. Elegantly. No. Not elegantly. Messy. Like the driveway. Like the stain. Like me. Watch the blur. Keep it steady. Don’t let it fly.