“Where’s my bee?” my husband had returned from picking up the children at Montessori School without the children.
“Your what?”
“My bee,” he shouted, waving both hands. Yes, the ladies were going to be put out that he wasn’t there to get the kids at the appointed time. “Somebody took my bee.”
“I thought I knew almost everything about you,” I said, “but this is the first I’ve heard of your bee.”
He dismissed me with a glare and, as though just remembering something, ran into the garage. I heard the door of “Kelly,” my old Pontiac, slam shut moments before his car screeched on the way out the driveway. He had found his “B.”