A Bumblebee Existence

Don't worry, says Gaius. We'll try and extract you.

How? asks Terence.

I have some hand cream, says the neighbour.

So what? asks Terence.

I'll rub it on, says the neighbour. Then you'll slip out.

She takes her hand cream out of a small zippered bag.

She squeezes some out.

And starts rubbing it on Terence's legs. High up near the sides of his bottom.

He pops out of the gap he was wedged in.

Drops to the floor, and runs down the aisle towards Denis.

Well, that worked, says the neighbour.

He seemed in a hurry to get away, says Gaius.

Understandable, says the neighbour.

Denis looks around. 

Terence! says Denis Diderot. Come to visit?

I'm the messenger guy, says Terence.

What's that smell? asks Denis Diderot.

My bottom, says Terence.

You don't say, says Denis. 

I was stuck, says Terence. But that's not the message.

What is the message, and who is it from? asks Denis Diderot.

It's not a message, it's a conversation, says Terence. 

Hop up, says Denis. Let's have this conversation.

This is going well.

No one wants to know this, says Terence.

Know what? asks Denis.

Are you married? asks Terence.

Ah. Yes and no, says Denis. I have lived a somewhat bohemian existence.

Oh, says Terence. I have to go now.

He wriggles off Diderot's lap and runs back to Gaius and the neighbour.

Yes and no, says Terence.

I wonder what he meant by that? asks the neighbour.

Perhap's he's separated, says Gaius. 

No, he lived an existence, says Terence.

We all do that, says the neighbour. 

There was another word, says Terence. Something like bumblebee.

Where did it fit in the sentence? asks Gaius. 

A bumblebee existence, says Terence. 

That could mean many things, says the neighbour.

I'll go back and ask him, says Terence.

He runs back to Denis.

Here you are again, says Denis Diderot.  More conversation?

What's a bumblebee existence? asks Terence.

Denis Diderot tries to recall what he once wrote in his encyclopedie about the lifecycle of bumblebees.

It may have been one of his colleagues who wrote that particular entry.

But surely he knows enough about bees to answer an infant?

Well, says Denis Diderot. It's a busy existence. Coming and going. 

Where? asks Terence.

Back and forth, says Denis. Collecting pollen from flowers.

What did you do with it? asks Terence.

Me? says Denis Diderot. Nothing. 

I have to go, says Terence.

He runs back to the neighbour and Gaius.

Learn anything? asks Gaius.  

Coming and going for nothing, says Terence.