The Beekeeper's Neighbour – Part 2: Harvest

In August, they took the honey off.

Neža showed Ana how to uncap the frames, drawing the knife across the wax so the honey slid out thick and amber. They worked in Neža's kitchen with all the windows open and a fan turning. The room smelled of warm wax and sunlight. Honey dripped from every surface.

"This is a disaster," said Ana, up to the wrists in sticky gold.

"It's a harvest."

"There's honey in my hair."

"It suits you."

Ana snorted, flicking a spoon of it at Neža's shoulder. Neža retaliated with a handful of wax cappings. A food fight erupted. When it ended, they were both laughing, breathless, plastered in gold, and the kitchen was ruined.

At the end of the day, the extractor hummed and a dozen jars glowed on the table in a row. They carried two outside and sat on the low stone wall at the end of the garden, watching the evening bees return to their hives. The air was warm and smelled of lime blossom. The sky turned rose.

"Thank you for the drone," said Ana.

"You hated it."

"I was wrong." She turned a jar in her hands. "May I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"May I kiss you, Neža?"

Neža's veil, hanging on the wall, stirred in a sudden breeze. She turned slowly. "Yes," she said. "And if you say stop, you must take up beekeeping."

"I'd do that anyway."

Ana kissed her, honey-sweet, a sticky hand rising to cup her cheek. Neža kissed her back with unhurried tenderness, tasting of lime and wax. The hives hummed softly in the dusk, a deep, contented chord.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Neža.

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

The fence has a gate in it now. Over the gate, in two handwritings, a sign: Honey for sale. Complaints welcome.

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