Lost in the hive
Bees swarm between the elevator and the desks in the office. The noise drones on through the laughter that erupts, the footsteps rushing by. No one’s thought of doing a story about the beekeeper on the third floor for our newsletter, but I have, and I’m working to get it done.
Teresa has an unusual method for gathering the bees. She herds them into a circle on the floor and shapes them into patterns—and I take pictures, and when I ask her to point out the queen, she says she’ll be right back and walks off.
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Inside, the shopping mall is like none I’ve ever seen before. It’s several stories high with layers and levels that twist and turn into one another. A friend of mine and I are shopping for skin cream, and she’s excited, but when she’s like this, I can’t keep track of her. I only catch the hem of her skirt, which flutters as she turns a corner and disappears.
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The bees are getting louder, and I’m waiting for Teresa to return. When colleagues stop by to ask what I’m doing, I spill the whole story, and they get a look in their eyes, like they could scoop it.
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The mall is hardly recognizable as a mall. It’s all network of shops and cafes and millions of things I’d like to buy, but I’m here for skin cream, and to find my friend, and I’m not sure which one I’ll look for first. When I pass the perfume section and the boutiques with the designer handbags, I know I’m losing time on projects I’ve abandoned and need to finish.
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I’m still waiting by the elevators for Teresa. She never wears any of those beekeeping outfits, and I wonder how she stays safe. They say you can develop an allergy to bee stings over time, and I wonder if I’m old enough for that now. In my veins, I feel like myself, but I believe my blood and my bones are telling me to leave things to the younger ones, and I shouldn’t even try to keep up anymore because that’s when the poison sets in.
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When I round the corner to find the sundresses and shoes, I want them—and the skin cream—and to find my friend again—and to finish that project before everyone else takes it, but I’m lost in the buzz of the hive, winding my way up each level, turning down corridors, moving up flights of steps, running my fingers along potted plants, sailing past the piano player and the waterfall, until I’m in the atrium, where the sun shines through the glass windows, and I stand on a table in the food court and stretch my hands upward, flicking my fingers with golden rays sprinkled between, catching them all before my friend returns, the skin cream’s gone, the sting of the poison settles in, and all the tiny dots below start to swarm.
Flight of the dragonfly 