The Rooftop Beekeepers – Part 2: Honey Harvest

By August, the hives were golden and heavy.

Nadia and Owen had spent the summer on the roof, in veils and borrowed gloves, learning. They had learned to read the hum, to light the smoker, to lift a frame without crushing a bee. They had been stung six times. They had named the queens.

On the first Saturday of the harvest, they spun the honey in a rented extractor on the roof, with the city spread out below them in the evening light. The air smelled of wax and warm sugar. Golden honey ran slow and thick into a bucket.

"It's beautiful," breathed Nadia.

"It's ours."

"It's Beatrix's."

"She does the work."

They tasted from a frame with their fingers, bright and sweet, with a hint of linden. Honey ran down her wrist. He caught the drop with his thumb and licked it, absently, then went red.

"Sorry."

"Don't be."

The sun slid behind the skyline, and the rooftops turned orange and rose. A hot-air-balloon-sized moon rose over the river. Somewhere below, a saxophone began to play. The bees settled in their hives, drowsy and humming.

"Can I ask you something?" said Nadia.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you?"

"Yes," said Owen, quietly. "And if you say stop, you must let me name the next queen."

"What would you call her?"

"Nadia."

"That's unbearably sweet."

"I know. It's the honey."

She kissed him, honey-warm, her sticky hand on his T-shirt. He kissed her back, slow and gentle, a hand rising to her cheek. The rooftop glowed gold. Their veils hung on the rail, forgotten.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Nadia. "Very green."

The jars sell out each September. The label reads: Brooklyn Rooftop Honey. Made by two beekeepers and one queen who hates them both.

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