Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 556(@200wpm)___ 445(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
I chuckle. “Well, it was a disaster. But hey…that’s my life. I’m inherently undateable.”
“Marina, you’re not.”
“I am. I should probably start putting out on the first date.”
“Look, honey. I’m not going to tell you how to date because Lord knows it hasn’t worked out so well for me. But you do what you feel comfortable with. If you need to sleep with a guy on the first date in order to keep him interested, there’s something wrong with him. You do you.”
“But the more I do me, the longer I stay single. I wish I could be like Laz and just get a girl with the snap of my fingers.”
“Girls are just as complicated.”
“You know what I mean. He gets the opposite sex without any effort. He dates them for months, then breaks up with them. He’s not getting rejected, he’s not getting hurt. Then there’s me, who gets so far and then the guy just vanishes. They all vanish. They can’t be bothered getting to know me anymore. Fuck. Sometimes I just want to get laid.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that either,” she says. “I would if I could.”
“You can,” I tell her. Though I know she won’t. She won’t let go of her upper hand.
“When he goes low, I go high,” she says. “But still…some honest dick wouldn’t be a bad thing.”
I burst out laughing. “Honest dick. I like that.”
“Let me know if you find any.”
After we hang up, I discover a text from Laz.
How was last night?
I respond
Shitty
He texts back:
How about we do lunch and go to B&N?
I smile, my heart growing warmer. Man, if he wasn’t my friend, Laz would be the perfect boyfriend. Lunch in Studio City usually means scarfing down tasty treats at Umami Burger and then heading across the street to the Barnes and Noble that they repurposed in an old theatre. Literally my idea of heaven and it’s become almost a tradition for us after we’ve had a bad day.
OK. I have to write a blog post and get ready. Pick me up in an hour
Why can’t you pick me up?
Because you’re the guy and this is your idea. See you then.
My blog post doesn’t take too long. Usually I update it every other day or so while I make it a point to constantly upload to Instagram. My Instagram and social media feeds are the easiest part for me. I have a huge database of microphotographs I’ve taken of my hives as well as bees out and about. There’s a wealth of information about them I can share, so I usually just post a pic and a few lines about it. Sometimes it’s me doing a hive removal and showing followers how insane some of the natural hives can get. Sometimes it’s just of the queen, when I find her. Other times I do slow-motion photography of bees.
I know it’s an odd career to have, but I love it. When I went to university and got my bachelor of science, I got a minor in entomology. To be honest, I’m not a fan of bugs in general and even more so after studying them, but I’ve been fascinated by bees for a long time. Growing up just outside San Diego, my mother had several hives in our backyard and a huge garden. Every single happy childhood memory came from being in that garden with her.
My heart clenches at the thought and I take a deep breath through my nose, closing my eyes and centering myself. I’ve been trying to wean myself off of medication lately through breathing exercises and I’m not quite sure if it’s working.
I go back to finishing up the blog post then wonder if there’s something else I need to do. I started Palm Trees & Honey Bees two years ago, not really sure where my focus would be, but I was determined to become a full-time beekeeper. I finally quit my job as manager of a local garden center a few months ago when I officially reached my goal but even so, I need to expand and find new ways of creating revenue aside from educational classes and hive removals. The actual sale of honey, which I do out of the garage of the place I’m renting, doesn’t add up to much either.
Soon Laz is pulling up to the house in his vintage Camaro. It was originally a gift from his stepfather, and for various reasons he didn’t want to accept it. Now, thanks to Laz’s success as a poet, he’s been able to buy the car outright.
It’s black and sleek, with red leather seats, and it’s sexy as hell. I lock up the studio (which is pretty much a guest house) and make my way around the narrow slice of pool, a layer of leaves covering it, that sits between my place and the main house. As I walk through the side gate, the fig leaves brushing against me, I can feel Barbara, my landlord, watching me through the blinds.