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)
“Cross out fun. It’s unusual at best,” he says, breaking off as he raises his arm to swat a couple of more bees who are investigating him.
“Don’t,” I tell him, gripping his forearm and holding tight. “Don’t swat. They don’t deserve it.”
“Jesus, where did you get a kung-fu grip from?” He’s staring down at my hand and I tighten my grip even more.
“No swatting,” I warn him. “Or they will turn on you. I’ll make sure of it.”
“You are the Candyman,” he says in a hushed awe.
“Okay, let’s be serious for a second,” I say.
“You think I haven’t been taking any of this seriously?”
I give him a look but I’m not sure he can see it. It’s hard with all the bees darting between us. “If more people were exposed to hives like this in a safe and controlled environment, then they wouldn’t fear bees. If they don’t fear bees, they’re more likely to respect them. If they respect them, they might learn about them and find out how important they are to the world. I get a ton of calls for live bee removal but I’d get a lot more if people started respecting bees and wanting the hives to be safely removed. Most people just have a pest control person come and destroy them all…it’s…it’s devastating.”
Just thinking of it makes my heart feel weighted, way more than it should, like it’s sinking in my chest.
“You okay?” Laz says softly after a moment.
I exhale and give my head a little shake. “Yeah. Sorry. Don’t know why that bothers me so much.”
“This isn’t really about bees, is it?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You told me your mother kept bees when you were younger. After she died…you said that the hives were destroyed.”
I rub my lips together, glad he can’t get a good look at my face. “Yeah,” I say breathlessly. “Gone.”
“And those hives brought your mother the same kind of joy they bring you now, don’t they?”
I know what Laz is getting at. I’ve had this conversation with my therapist a lot. That the bees somehow represent my mother and my relationship with her, that I feel I can keep her alive if I keep the hives alive. But though this insight isn’t new to me, it’s new to Laz. In the past, I might have shrugged it off but I don’t want to do that anymore.
“They do,” I say quietly. “It’s how I keep her memory alive. When I see hives destroyed, it just reminds me of everything I lost.”
“Do you need a hug?”
I let out a soft laugh and put my hand out to keep him in his place. “No hugging in front of the bees. I’m not sure how they’ll take it.”
“And you want this to be a date-night activity?”
“Okay, so maybe you have a point.” I sigh. I still think I could make it work but maybe it’s the kind of thing that really wouldn’t take off here. Maybe my efforts are better spent elsewhere. “Anyway,” I go on, “now that you’re somewhat calm and orderly, let me at least give you the rundown of the hive.”
The hives I have are top-bar hives, which looks totally different from what people are used to seeing. The traditional beehives are the ones that are like high stacks and have the brood at the bottom and the honey at the top. But the frames are heavy as hell and you have to smoke the bees to keep them calm. With the top-bar system, it’s horizontal. It’s less intrusive and I don’t even have to suit up if I don’t want to. I did today but I’m not even wearing gloves.
“Are you ready to take a look?” I ask him.
He takes a small step back and then nods. “Yes.”
I grin to myself in anticipation. “Okay.”
I grip the ends of one of the frames with both hands and slowly pull it up out of the hive.
A very large comb, maybe two feet long, hangs off, every inch covered by hundreds of bees, wriggling like one dark beast. It’s a gorgeous sight but…
Laz is screaming.
“Oh my god!” he shrieks. “Fuck this!”
He turns around and starts running. I watch him, trying not to laugh as he goes across the lawn looking like a lunatic in his white suit, like a Hazmat worker fleeing the scene from a radioactive monster. Then he slips on the grass and eats shit.
Now I’m laughing and it’s shaking the comb, so more bees are coming off of it, mad at me for disturbing them.
“I’m so sorry,” I say to the bees through my laughter, hoping I can put the frame back in before one of them stings my bare hands.
Thankfully I make it and I go running after Laz who is lying on his back spread eagle on the grass.