He ties me to a chair, while bees drone through a broken window.
‘We were just talking,’ I plead.
‘You gave him the look. The one you used to give me,’ he screams, raising a hammer.
A bee alights on his hand. Frantically he brushes it away.
‘No-else can have you…’ a stinging barb cuts off his words.
‘Epi pen,’ he groans, crumples to the floor, lies there motionless.
‘But my hands are tied,’ words sweeter than honey.