The Honey Weekend – Part 2: Extraction

On Sunday, they spun the honey.

The old man's workshop smelled of beeswax and warm sugar. A steel drum hummed in the corner, flinging amber honey from the frames in long golden ropes. Katja and Matej stood at the table, in aprons now, no veils, uncapping the wax with hot knives. Honey ran down their wrists and elbows. They licked it off, laughing.

"It's like being eleven," said Katja.

"It's like being sticky."

By four, they had filled sixty jars. They labelled each with a hand-drawn bee and a date. The old man put one in each of their hands and nodded solemnly. "Your first honey," he said. "It will be better than any you can buy."

They carried the jars out to the orchard, to a mossy bench under an apple tree, and sat down with a loaf of bread and a knife. The sun was low and gold. The mountains glowed pink. Bees drifted lazily through the long grass. The air smelled of ripe fruit and cut hay.

Matej spread honey on a thick slice of bread and handed it over. It was dark, rich, floral, tasting of lime blossom and summer. Katja closed her eyes.

"That," she said, "is the best thing I've ever eaten."

"We made it."

"The bees made it."

"We helped."

"We moved slowly."

He grinned. His hand was warm on her knee. The long shadows of the trees reached across the grass. In the distance, someone was playing an accordion.

"Can I ask you something?" said Matej.

"Yes."

"May I kiss my wife? In an orchard?"

"Yes," said Katja. "And if I say stop, you must keep bees."

"I'll keep a hundred hives."

He kissed her, slow and sweet, a sticky hand rising to her braid. She kissed him back with nineteen years of fondness, tasting of honey and sun. The apple tree rustled above them. A single bee circled once and flew away.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Katja. "Very green."

They keep two hives in the garden. Their teenagers refuse to go near them. They say their parents have become suspiciously slow.

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