Organic Machinery

As a child, Dr. Weller spent most of her time playing in her backyard. She sat near a large bush with lavender-coloured flowers that attracted enormous, fuzzy bumblebees. These bees puttered around like clown cars from flower to flower, burrowing deep inside, wiggling around, and then climbing out, often returning to the same flower later. They made her think of organic machinery, a single cog in something much greater, unaware of the master plan.

Now, the colour of the bacterial rash on Mr. Tindal’s semi-erect penis (he apologized profusely) reminded her of those flowers, albeit less majestic and far more sordid.