‘When I was a child, I was stung by a bee on my lip,’ she muttered slowly, as if she were dusting off the memory. ‘My mouth became so swollen it looked like a water balloon. My father said the bee was madly in love … with me. It wanted to kiss me. I always wondered, did it know it would die as soon as it used its stinger? Weird, isn’t it, if it knows it and does it anyway. Self-destruction.’
