Three or four people have already asked me about the wasp I heroically fought Tuesday morning, and I have been ashamed to tell them I never did find the body of my (presumably) slain opponent.
I did my dishes and cleaned my sink (with a bit of good bleach and soap) and there was no wasp in there, dead or otherwise. I never did find it.
So far, though, I haven’t found any more wasps in my apartment. Before the kitchen invasion, I had found a dead wasp in my bedroom, near the air conditioner, and a drowning wasp in my toilet. (Yes, I flushed it. Sorry, PETA. It was him or me, and I don’t fit down the drain.)
I did get dive-bombed by a wasp on my way to the garage this morning, but I consider the outdoors the bugs’ territory. Invading my home is punishable by death. Flying around outside? That’s another story.
So the waspy Horde of Stingy Doom has not yet returned, and my fears that I inadvertently provoked a retaliatory incursion may have been unfounded.
That, or they may be waiting for me behind the door at home this afternoon, figuring they’ll have a whole weekend to torment me if they wait until today.