I always pay at the pump, so after I retrieved my violently abused credit card, I put the nozzle away and promptly walked into the gas hatch that I'd left open. Ouch. I slammed it shut, and got into the car, rubbing my leg and trying to look like of course I meant to leave the hatch open. I put the key in the ignition, leaned into my seat and shrieked in agony as a burning, slicing pain exploded across my back. As I jerked forward, another white-hot stab lanced into my back. WTF!! All thoughts of the cars patiently waiting for me to move away from the pump were obliterated in a blaze of neurons firing down my spine.
I scrabbled desperately behind me for the source of my torment, and closed my fist around a soft, prickly sphere. How did I get a burr on me, and why did it hurt so much? Then the burr shook in my hand and I screamed as I flung that furious bumblebee to Timbuktu.
The drive home was unpleasant and as I leaned stiffly away from the back of the car seat, I consoled myself with the thought that at least this bee sting didn't involve the humiliation of the last one. That marvelous experience involved junior high, a bee trapped in the fortress of my heavily Aqua-Netted bangs and the very hot older guy who lived near me. So really, it could be worse.