Blind Date

Virgil chuckled, the sound seeming to vibrate in his chest. Annie was surprised the bees didn’t feel it. “Some beekeepers do. I don’t. You, however, should put on a pair of those goggles over there.” He nodded toward a pair of swimmer’s goggles hanging on a nail. Annie situated a pair on her face, feeling silly. The world took on a plastic haze.

Virgil stood fixed before one of the boxes, taking deep breaths through his nose. When he spoke to her, he only turned his head. “I am going to open the hive and show you one of the supers-that’s these things that look like trays. The top ones will have just a few bees and be mostly honey. Go a few rows down, and we will find all our bees.”

Annie gulped, feeling faint. “Okay.”

He smiled that welcoming smile again. “You can come look. But never breathe right onto the bees. They will take off and may sting if you do.” Virgil pulled one of the middle trays from the hive. His movements were slow, easy, and practiced. Supers! I don’t know what’s so super about them!

Annie watched, amazed. A low drone she had just assumed was the buzz of the electric wires on the roof grew louder. It was the bees humming!

He was graceful, his movements as smooth and lithe as any ballet dancer.

The sun was bright and shone onto the golden combs as he tilted the tray up and Annie gasped. There were hundreds of bees working in the waxy substance, the tray dripping honey in slow drops at Virgil’s feet. Curious, she leaned in, remembering what he had said about breath, keeping hers confined to her nose.

Virgil, turning his head away from the hive as he spoke, whispered, “Taste.”

Annie moved her hand in slow motion, watching as bees crawled over the frame, over Virgil’s big, dark fingers, a few buzzing upward and settling on his arm. Annie touched her finger to a wet part of the comb and just as slowly brought it back to her mouth. It was the sweetest substance that had ever touched her tongue, and she looked up at Virgil in wonder, moving just her eyes to meet his. He smiled.

Lost in the moment, Annie finally noticed a bee sitting on her arm. She froze. Her first instinct was to blow at it, or shake it off, or worse, run!

“Be still. Wait.”

She followed his instructions, holding her breath as she felt the bees crooked legs, so soft they tickled, working their way toward her elbow. Then there was a little buzz and the bee took flight, heading back to the comb.

Virgil replaced the tray with the same deft care he’d used to remove it.

Annie’s heart was pounding and her ears were ringing. She felt charged, exhilarated, like she did after waking up from dreams of flying.

“Wow,” she breathed, her eyes shining up at him.

“Food of the gods,” he said with a wink.

Annie grinned back at him. “I’ll say!”

“I find beekeeping to be quite a meditation,” he remarked. “You have to move slowly up here.” He pointed at the floor. “Unlike down there.” Annie nodded in understanding. “Thank you for showing me.” Virgil shrugged, changing the subject. “Well, about Dita’s honey. We’ll have to go into the greenhouse.”

“In there?” Annie pointed to the small glass building at the other end of the roof.

He nodded and then motioned for her to follow him.

“So, Virgil, how did you get permission to do all of this?” Virgil walked and Annie mimicked his fluid steps. “I own the building.” Annie stared at him as they stopped outside the door, bemused. “You do?”

He ignored her question. “The bees in here are different.” His smile was gone. “These are a strain of bees derived from African honeybees. Have you heard of them?”

Her eyes widened, remembering some news story she once saw. “Aren’t those killer bees?”

“Yes,” Virgil nodded. “They are not so named because one sting can kill you, but because they are much more aggressive than their European cousins out here.”

Annie peered into the greenhouse and could see bees buzzing about.

“How much more aggressive?”

Virgil shrugged. “They can sense a threat fifty feet or more from a nest.

They respond quickly. They sting in large numbers, and they will pursue a perceived enemy for a quarter mile or more.”

Annie’s hand went to her throat as she looked up at him.

“These are actually assassin bees,” he continued. “They have killed off another hive in order to take over this one. I harvested them from the wild. It is believed the nastiest bees actually make the sweetest honey.” Annie frowned. “Is that true?”

“Partially true.” His eyes moved over her face. “They are harder workers and produce more, but honey is like wine. It picks up the flavors of the nectars in the local environment, so its sweetness depends on the flowers.” Annie shaded her eyes again, looking into the greenhouse. “Is that what makes this honey special?”