The Wasp and the Twig

Electric green algae had made their way to the pond’s surface, punctured by water lilies, like freckles that only appear in summer. The sun was setting, taking its time, as if unwinding in the languor of a different sunset after a hard day’s work.

The prolonged sight of the water, a flattering mirror to the last gleams of daylight, had cast a mellow spell on me.

Life’s not that bad, I thought, as I turned the 98th page of my book.

From the right, dashed in a wasp. Like an arrogant electric scooter, it barged into my world menacingly without a sound, then started to launch itself at me in invisible jabs. For a few seconds I was motionless despite the immediate shattering of my inner peace, while it masterfully lunged at my face without touching it, like a bully drone breathing down my neck.

More than once I had been stung by a wasp unjustifiably, and I am able to feel the excruciating pain of those nips (once on the finger, once on the head, once on the right buttock) by merely conjuring those memories. If you act normal it will not harm you, someone had once explained to me, and I remember all I wanted then was for a wasp to pierce through their sock.

At once the wasp landed on my cheek, as if running headlong into a mirror.

I brushed it off briskly with the back of my hand, startled by my own courage, but now its lunges became more charged, more intentional, for I had crossed a line.

In instinctive correlation with the intensifying threat, nature’s harmony, my gesturing became more pronounced and built itself up into a full blown choreography. If someone took a second to look at me from a distance, they would have thought I was dancing to whatever music was in their ears.

But then, abruptly, the wasp ghosted me for a bottle of beverage standing by the bench right next to me, like a kid who instantly abandons a toy for having spotted a better one.

In that momentary truce, I got to observe the wasp trifle with the rim of the bottle where moist lips had earlier rested. Sugar, I thought, could bring the entire animal kingdom to its knees, and in some other part of my mind I was already plotting the wasp’s demise.

While it loitered on the edge (of the bottle) like one does at the whim of temptation, my eyes searched for a natural device, a leaf perhaps, that I could shove into the bottle and trap my aggressor inside. A sloppy execution, I thought, but in that same instant I spotted a scattered batch of splintered branches and meticulously, my fingers singled out a long, thick enough twig.

Dropping that twig into the bottle is all it would take to trap the wasp in there forever and enjoy the rest of my book on my favorite bench in this perfect weather.

In spite of my killer instinct and the weapon in my hand, I coerced myself into reason.

Wasps, I thought, bring considerably more value to our ecosystem than most humans do. Also, there is a rather hefty fine here for murdering one, granted an excellent citizen witnesses the act, documents and reports it to the authorities.

Noticing my reticence crystallize, I forced myself back into darker, more selfish thoughts. Does a wasp die after inflicting a bite on its prey? No it doesn’t, my phone confirmed, then it AI-splained to me without me asking, that unlike bees who live by the mantra of you only bite once, wasps have smooth stingers that can be retracted and used multiple times.

It was precisely that last notion about smooth, reusable stingers that asserted my intention to end the wasp’s life. I even riled myself with the thought that this wasp could well be the same one that bit me the last time.

It had now ambushed itself into the depth of the bottle, frantically scavenging for bigger hits of sucrose in the form of apple juice droplets.

With a steady hand I extended my arm in the bottle’s direction, the twig held resolutely between my thumb and index finger, I then scanned my surroundings for excellent citizens while positioning the tine of the twig on the bottle’s lip.

As soon as my mind established the all clear my hand had released the wooden dagger to the bottom. I then attempted a merciful kill, lifting the twig and ramming it two consecutive times to crush the insect. I paused, then thrust it a third time but the wasp was dancing those jabs off, almost amused by their harmlessness.

Too burdened by the thought of it darting out and stinging me in the hand (without dying afterwards), I let go of the twig which now stood still in the bottle, protruding from the top. I rubbed my sweaty palm against my thigh and vigilantly observed the poor creature in its glass cage.

Undeterred by its predicament, as if able to introspect, it calmed itself into composure and was now courting the wooden stick that had just pierced through its world, like someone on their first pole-dancing lesson familiarizing themselves with the object. Then it rested its clawed feet on the twig and started its cautious hike up to the narrowed opening. Who would have thought a wasp could be graceful, I pondered, as I watched it find its way out of the tight orifice and take into the air triumphantly.

For a moment, it halted its flight midair and suspended itself right in front of me at eye level, impelling me into a staring contest. Incapable of rancor despite its upper hand, it glided past me without looking back.

A pang of affection started in my gut and dampened my eyes.

I, who had set out to murder that wasp, now felt proud of having saved it.

Come to think of it, it was entrapped and bound to overdose on sugar until my twig gave it a safe passage back into the world. Is there a reward for saving a wasp?

I almost convinced myself that subconsciously, my intention had always been to liberate it.

How chilling, I thought before re-engaging with my 99th page, that a failed kill can allow its perpetrator the warmth of mercifulness.