The Bee-Suit Apologia

Monologue

Look at me. No, do not recoil. The iridescent sheen is merely a byproduct of the symbiotic chitinous bonding. It is an architecture of wings and hunger. I remember the lecture halls of the university. The sterile air. The tenure committee's insistence that my research into pheromonal semiotics was unstable. They preferred their truths in peer reviewed journals; I prefer mine in the humming heat against my sternum. Can you feel it? Even from there? The collective thrum. This is not a costume. It is a biological filter. These creatures, my Apis veritas, do not respond to the spoken word. They respond to the chemical signature of deception. When you lie, your skin weeps a specific, sour pheromone. The hive detects it. They tighten. They vibrate. They warn. Right now, the swarm is calm. A low, amber frequency. But look at the man in the grey suit. See how the bees on my left shoulder are beginning to spiral? He is lying to himself about his happiness. Or perhaps he is lying about his taxes. Either way, the hive knows. It is a heavy burden, this transparency. The stings are occasional, yes, but they are honest stings. They are the only honest things left in this city of concrete and curated personas. Each prick is a correction. A calibration of the soul. I have shed the wool. I have shed the polyester. I am draped in the living geometry of the hive. I am no longer a man; I am a sensory organ for the truth. Step closer. Be honest with me, and the swarm will remain a garment. Lie to me, and we shall both learn the cost of a fabrication.