The Beekeeper's Neighbour – Part 1: Over the Fence

"Your bees are looking at me," said the new neighbour.

Neža raised her head from the hive. She was thirty-three, a beekeeper in a veil and a white boiler suit, standing in her walled garden in Ljubljana with a smoker in one gloved hand. Over the fence, a woman in pyjama trousers and a jumper regarded her with deep suspicion.

"They don't look. They fly."

"They're hovering."

"They're orienting."

"It's seven in the morning."

"They're early risers."

The woman folded her arms. She was thirty, a graphic designer, with a halo of messy hair, sleepy eyes and an expression of aggrieved dignity. Ana. She had moved in the week before, from the city, craving peace.

"I work from home," she said. "It's very loud."

"It's a hum."

"It's a drone."

"They're making honey."

"I don't want honey. I want silence."

Neža removed her veil. She looked, for a moment, almost kind. "Come over," she said. "Five minutes. Then decide."

Ana came. She stood at the hive in a borrowed veil, trembling with indignation. Neža lifted a frame. It was thick with bees, dark and gold, glistening. The sound was a deep, warm thrum, almost like breathing.

"Oh," said Ana, softly.

"Yes."

"It's... rather beautiful."

"It's the queen. She runs the whole thing."

Ana stared at the frame for a long time. The bees crawled over Neža's gloves. The morning sun slanted over the wall.

The next day a jar of plum jam appeared on the fence post. The next, a note: I'm sorry about the drone. Neža sent back a comb of honey. They exchanged jars, recipes, complaints about the weather. Over the following weeks, they found themselves leaning on the fence at dusk, talking.

"Can I ask you something?" said Ana, one evening.

"Yes."

"Is it strange that I miss the hum when it's quiet?"

"Green?" said Neža, a hive colour.

"Green," said Ana, laughing. "Very green."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Harvest.