Sweeter Than Honey

Sweeter Than Honey By Jessica Payseur Bradley kept the windows cracked a couple inches as he drove, letting the late summer air fill his car with the smell of warm, ripe fields. So maybe he’d been given the assignment no one wanted. So maybe he’d kind of-sort of volunteered for it to get his mind off Lance. In the end, it could mean a raise, and he wouldn’t say no to that. For now, it meant the two other reporters and the intern had rolled their eyes and wished him a good Friday evening. Sarcastically. Bradley had grabbed his pencil and notebook and fed the directions to his GPS. Working for a small town newspaper often meant a lot of driving out to the middle of nowhere to get a story, and the place he was going was about the farthest outside of town he’d been for a piece. He passed by fields dotted with farmhouses and the occasional five-hundred-thousand-dollar new custom home for those families who wanted country living in comfort. Corn fields turned to soy turned to fenced-in expanses peppered with cows, and Bradley yawned. He should have had that last coffee before leaving. He passed by an apple orchard and wondered if he’d get that story, too, in a couple weeks, then nearly missed his turn. He hit the brakes hard and took the right without signaling, glad there were no oncoming cars because he’d ended up in the wrong lane. This place was so far out there, the road didn’t even have lines. He drove through more fields, then saw the old ranch house up ahead with the large yellow hexagon hanging under the mailbox. It swung in the wind, a weathered piece of wood with chipped amber paint he’d been told marked the place he was going. Bradley pulled down the gravel driveway and parked. He got out and retrieved his notepad and pencil. He could have brought his laptop, he supposed, but he liked the feel of pencil against paper. It made him feel the part, which was otherwise difficult working at a tiny publication in a small town. Shay did not come out to greet him. Bradley didn’t take that as a good sign. He wandered about, not wanting to stray into anything dangerous, and turned around the side of the house. In front of the unattached garage stood a large metal tub with what looked like a hand crank sticking out of it. Bradley stared. “Hey, are you the reporter?” Bradley turned at the voice and saw a man walking up to him, white apart from the odd smudge of dirt on him. He wore red plaid and jeans, his brown hair tossed about by the wind. Bradley hadn’t expected him to be so young—mid-twenties, he guessed, about his age. The man was wiping his hands on an old, yet clean, towel. “Bradley Kim,” said Bradley, sticking out his hand. “From the Local Times.” “Shay Wilton, but you could have guessed.” Shay grinned at him, and Bradley pushed the tip of his pencil into his palm, hard. It would be too easy to get caught up in that grin, in those eyes. Those were mischievous eyes. But Bradley had a boyfriend. He cleared his throat and opened his notepad, reminding himself he was here for work, not play. And he shouldn’t even be thinking of play. “Thanks for coming out here,” said Shay. “I didn’t even know you ran articles on little people like me. Is it slow this time of year?” “We like to highlight local businesses when we can. Gets people in the area to know who you are, maybe think of you first. Promotes a community feel. If they read about you and your craft, they’ll feel like they know you.” “And maybe they’ll come up to me at the farmers’ market and chat,” said Shay. He tossed the towel aside, onto a cluttered table. “I won’t turn down a few more sales.” “Can you make a lot of money on honey?” asked Bradley, then focused intently on his notepad as Shay laughed. It was a good laugh, not tinged with malice at all, but Bradley still felt unprofessional for the little rhyme. That wasn’t what amused Shay, though. “Money? Look, everyone thinks it’s good because the honey looks so expensive to them, but really, it’s a hobby. I’m just an office drone by day.” Bradley glanced at him and he winked, actually winked. He had to be indicating the drone line was a pun. Bradley rubbed his nose with a finger. This was going to be a long interview. “Hobby, got it,” he said, and wrote that down. Shay motioned with a hand. “Want a quick tour?” “I…” Bradley didn’t want to say he was afraid of being stung—he was, just a little—but he didn’t have any excuse that wouldn’t sound like he was a coward. He relented and shrugged. “Sure. The whole farm, or just the bees?” Shay set off along a large trimmed path between two fields of corn, the plants towering above their heads. Bradley could smell the sweetness of the corn in the air and sun-warmed leaves from the stalks themselves. He’d always thought the rustle of wind through the stiff leaves was eerie, but here, now, walking next to Shay, they almost sounded calming, like one of those background sound-of-the-ocean tracks. He was beginning to think it had been a longer week than he’d realized. “The farm’s not mine,” said Shay. He was leading them to a distant treeline at the end of the fields. “I own the house. Bought it from a family of farmers—one of the older relatives lived there until he died, but the people who farm didn’t need another house. They let me keep the bees on their land. They’d do it for free, but I bring them honey every now and then.” Bradley didn’t see anything for the article to write down in all that. He couldn’t tell whether Shay was trying to impress him by bragging about his generosity, or if it was just talk to eat up time. The hives were at the edge of the trees, four of them total, and Bradley hung back by the corn pretending to take notes as Shay walked toward the white boxes, completely unafraid. “Aren’t you supposed to be wearing one of those bee spacesuits?” asked Bradley. Shay laughed again. “We shouldn’t get stung just walking around. I wasn’t going to open them up unless you wanted. I already got my frames out.” When Bradley stared at him, he walked back a few paces and motioned with his hands. “The hives are full of frames that can be easily removed. The bees make their comb in the frames, fill it with honey, and cap it off. I can take what I want and leave the rest for them over winter.” Bradley nodded and jotted that down. When he looked up, Shay had started off toward the hives again. Bradley wanted to hang back, but he felt a strong desire not to look afraid around Shay. He forced his feet forward, past one, two, three hives. The fourth looked different. At least, it had glass sticking up out of the top. “What’s with this last hive?” Shay turned back and winked at him again. Bradley had to look away. There was a breeze, but it was way too hot out here, and certainly there wasn’t enough distance between them. He tried not to think about it, but in the end he chided himself for not seeing to his urges more. He’d been working so hard to deal with Lance’s absence that he hadn’t been properly dealing with his own needs, and now they were interfering with an interview. “My secret honey trick,” said Shay. He looked immensely proud of himself. “I put jars on the top here. The bees climb up inside and make the comb right in it. Then I take it off, twist the metal lid on, and people just cannot figure out how I got the honey in there like that. It’s a good seller.” Bradley had to admit, it was clever. But when he raised his pencil to scribble it down, Shay moved closer and put his hand on top of Bradley’s. Rough skin. Gentle touch. Something lurched inside, and Bradley looked up, directly into Shay’s eyes. Shay grinned. “I’d really appreciate it if you don’t give away my little secret,” he said. Bradley couldn’t do anything more than nod, and Shay’s hand disappeared, taking the warmth with it. He was disappointed. He had no right to be. He’d have to go home and call Lance. Maybe they could masturbate together, deal with it that way. Lance had to be feeling similarly—he’d been gone weeks now. Bradley could wait an hour. “Well, unless you want me to open up the hives and show you how the frames work, I guess we’re done here,” said Shay. “Questions?” “How did you get into all this?” Time for questions yielding answers he could actually put down in an article. He didn’t have to write up much, but it couldn’t be about how easy Shay was to look at. “I had a great-aunt who did it, so I was around the bees when I was a kid. After a bad breakup, I kind of went looking for my roots, remembered how much fun it had been when the other kids were scared of the bees, the taste of warm honey, chewing on the combs. Don’t put down the bad breakup part. Nobody needs to know that I had a minor life crisis after finding I wasn’t really building a family with the One. If you know what I mean.” “When was this? I’ll just write down you went looking to connect with your roots a few years ago.” “That’d work.” Shay smiled over his shoulder. “Thanks.” “So you remembered what it was like as a kid and got into it again?” “Well, there wasn’t exactly an again,” said Shay, scratching the back of his head. “I never really helped my great-aunt, just tagged along. I was a kid. But when I started with bees, did it ever suck me in. There’s something about it. The hum, the risk of being stung is so opposite the sweetness of the product. It’s poetic or something. You do get stung, obviously. Overall, it’s very…peaceful. Soothing. Just you and the bees.” He paused, laughed. “I sound obsessed.” And Bradley liked it. Lance wasn’t passionate about anything. Over the years, Bradley had interviewed enough people to learn to enjoy that spark when he saw it—that flicker in the eye, that desire. It wasn’t s****l, but it was compelling. That one thing a person could find so fascinating it moved them. It was one of those things Bradley thought would always be attractive, and he didn’t need the extra help right now. He jotted a few somethings down in his notepad, smiling a little. “Obsessed can be good,” he said, a pathetic reply, but Shay didn’t seem to mind. They exited the corn out onto the gravel driveway, and Shay turned back to him. “So, what else do you want to know about? I figured I’d take you through the spinning process, if you’re up for it. Before the sun goes down.” The light was starting to leave. Bradley blinked, only now noticing the pink hue against the clouds, the orange puddle on the horizon. Shay moved to the garage and turned on the outside lights, illuminating the metal can Bradley had seen when first pulling up. He had a nagging thought at the back of his mind that he should finish this up fast before it got dark, but he pushed it aside. He’d done a ridiculous number of interviews; he could be professional. “Tell me about the spinning process, then,” he said. Shay rolled his eyes. “I’d rather show you. It’s better that way. Maybe the honey will move you, too.” Bradley glanced up at that, wary. “It’ll make your article better,” said Shay. “Let me show you how wonderful it is.” He reached out, took Bradley’s notepad and pen from him, and Bradley let him. Shay set them on the nearby table, leaving him to take notes later, and then motioned him to just inside the garage where he plugged something into the outlet there. “You might want to take off your tie. This can get a little messy.” Bradley loosened his tie, frowning. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get messy, fun as it sounded. But it did feel good to take his tie off at the end of a long week. He walked back to his car, folding up the tie as he went, then opened the passenger door and set it on the seat. The other reporters treated him like he was overdoing it for wearing one—the Local Times was such a small publication—but Bradley had always felt he needed to really show he was professional. People tended to think he was smart but not necessarily good at writing, and he found the tie helped a little. On the way back to the garage he unbuttoned his cuffs and turned up his sleeves, thinking how sticky honey was. The less he got on himself, the better. Shay was waiting next to what looked like a cement trowel plugged into the wall, and he was definitely admiring Bradley head to foot. Bradley looked away, embarrassed, and pointed to the blade. “Electric metal? That doesn’t sound like a good idea.” “It’s a heated knife, for uncapping the comb. Cuts right off like butter.” Shay grinned. “A moment more, and you’ll get to see it in action.” Bradley waited an awkward moment more. He wondered why he wasn’t insisting on more of an interview and less of a hands-on experience when it was clear Shay was interested. How he’d determined Bradley was available was a bit of a mystery, but he wasn’t about to ask. He was worried Shay had been sneaking glances at his crotch, and Bradley had gone hard at least twice now listening to him talk. “So, you use it to melt off the caps. Standing over here is better.” Bradley obeyed Shay without question, moving to stand where he could see him use the knife to cut away the beeswax. “It curls away like so.” “Why let the bees cap it off?” asked Bradley, searching for something, anything to talk about that would distract him. The smell of the warm metal mixing with honey, Shay looking relaxed and handsome in the peach glow of the sunset, was difficult to think around. Shay cut a long curl from the frame and slid it into a clean bucket before raising the knife and continuing to carve off the wax. His motions were practiced, gentle, and he left behind smooth, glistening honey. “You want me to go full-nerd on you?” He grinned, the look vanishing as he concentrated on what he was doing again. Shay’s eyes were so intense. Bradley swallowed. “It’s to do with optimal honey moisture. The bees know when it’s good—that’s when they cap it off to save it. If you take it too soon, you can get problems like fermentation.” “Interesting.” Bradley inched toward his notepad. He scrawled the information onto the paper, trying to ignore Shay as he turned the frame and used the knife on the other side. “I got to the other frame before you showed up,” said Shay, standing and taking the glistening rectangle over to the metal can and sliding it inside from the top. “So we’re good to go now. This is a little two-frame honey extractor. Frames go in, turn the crank, and it spins the honey out. It all oozes into that clean bucket down there.” Bradley managed to write down it was a two-frame spinner before Shay waved him over. He set his pencil down and moved to stand nearby, letting Shay reach out and turn the crank first. The insides of the extractor whirred and hummed as the frames spun around, and Bradley crept closer before peering inside to have a look at what was going on. From the blur of the spinning frames, honey shot out, dripped down the sides of the extractor, pooled at the bottom. He couldn’t see what was happening to the bottoms of the frames, but the tops were enough. Strands of honey rose up like they wanted to sail the skies, and Bradley felt some touch his face. A thin line of honey found its way onto his glasses, and he pulled back only to find Shay taking his arm. “Your turn,” he said. “You’ll love it. Just try it.” Shay stood close—too close—as Bradley reached for the crank, but he was beginning to feel the excitement now. Shay’s eagerness and the energy that seemed to well up in him as he turned the crank tumbled over and over inside Bradley until he was grinning largely. He was spinning honey. It was a timeless experience, everything that existed in these moments the only things that existed at all. There was just him, and Shay, and the sound of whirring drifting out across the fields. A miniature golden waterfall tumbled into the pail as crickets began chirping around them. Strands of honey rose up like loosened spider webs, dancing in the air. Bradley had given up trying not to get dirty—he was covered in sweet stickiness. Shay was returning his grin, leaning closer to him. For a moment, he contemplated not moving away. Bradley stepped back. “Sorry,” he said, trying to make it seem like he’d stumbled on the gravel. The sun had disappeared completely and he noticed with a jolt that it was much colder than it had been even when they had started. Shay moved forward and caught the crank, worked it hard to get the last of the honey out. Bradley watched him, feeling like he’d just shattered some meaningful connection. But he’d been sure Shay had been about to kiss him, and it wasn’t appropriate considering Lance. It took everything for Bradley to hold back a sigh. Shay, however, didn’t look too disheartened. He finished up and removed the now-empty frames. “Great, isn’t it?” he asked. Bradley offered a hesitant smile. “This has certainly been a memorable interview,” he said. He poked at his arms, the fingers sticking, and didn’t want to think about the state of his clothes. His glasses were foggy, and it wasn’t from the temperature. He was a mess. A horny, sticky mess who really should get home, clean himself up, and call his boyfriend. “Shower?” asked Shay. “Honey is sticky business.”