Page 91 of Lovebug
“It’s in pieces, and I sent the bees back, but, yeah, I have it.”
“Great, bring in the pieces tomorrow when you come to work, and I’ll get you set up. Reorder your bees, and you’ll be all set.”
“But it’s already July,” I protest.
“And the best times to harvest are July, August, and late September. You know that. Soon, we’ll harvest my first batch, then I bet we can get you a nice haul by September if we start now. Don’t worry, Mabel Again. We still have time.”
I can’t help but feel giddy over his use of the word “we” here. And the ridiculous nickname he’s given me.
“Um. I’m sort of speechless right now. Are you even allowed to—”
“Sweetheart, you’d be amazed at all the things I’m ‘allowed’ to do here.”
“Okaaaaaay.” Not sure exactly what that means, but okay.
“And you’re here at the arboretum five days a week—sometimes more—anyway, right?”
“Right.”
“So you can visit your hive anytime you like,” he says like it’s a done deal. “It’s perfect.”
I hesitate for just a half-second before saying, “Perfect.”
“Great! Perfect! Did someone order drinks?” another voice says. I tear my eyes away from Wally’s to see his buddy James approaching. “Don’t mind me,” James says as he slinks up beside us, unfolds a cocktail table, sets it to its highest height, then cracks open two cold craft beers he pulls from his pockets and places one in front of each of us. “Summer Ale okay, miss?”
“Fine, yes. Um. What’s happening right now?” My head whips back and forth between Wally and his friend.
“Drinks are on him.” James gestures to Wally. “Well technically they’re on me, but figuratively, they’re on him. Also on him?” James pulls out a small jar filled with amber-colored liquid. The syrup he’s selling? “Nectar from the gods! Or from the trees anyway.” He unscrews the lid and guides the jar under my nose. “Breathe it in, buttercup. Does that smell like cozy winter morning wrapped in the arms of your beloved, or what?”
“I mean… it smells like syrup.”
“James? Wally warns. “This better not be...”
“Tap Dat Asp?” I read the label out loud.
“Get it?” James enthuses. “Kind of like ‘Tap dat ass’? But instead of tapping asses, we’re tappin’ trees?”
“Sure, yeah. I get it!” I smile. I can’t help it. In general, I try to be an encouraging person.
“It’s good, isn’t it? Come on, Mabel, tell him it’s good!” James sort of whines.
“It’s certainly… catchy. But can you tap Aspen trees for making syrup?” I look at Wally.
“Technically, youcan,” Wally says, “though Aspens aren’t typically known for their sugar content. And this syrup is definitely from a Maple tree, so—as I’ve been trying to tell James here—the product name ‘Tap Dat Asp’ is inaccurate, and quite frankly, on the verge of being anti-feminist.”
James scoffs. “Whatever, trunk man. It’s a good name and you know it.” He catches the eye of a couple looking to do a beer tasting at his booth. “Gotta run. Enjoy, lovers!” James slaps Wally on the back, then hurries back to his potential customers.
I’m left alone with Wally, standing at this makeshift cocktail table, two, frothy delicious-looking beers at the ready.
He breezes right past the fact that his friend just called us “lovers,” gestures to the beers and says, “Shall we?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure. No one seems to be lining up to save the bees at the moment, so I have a few minutes. How about you?”
He peers over at his syrup stand. “Yeah. Looks like I’m in the clear for now too. Cheers?”
He picks up the glass in front of him and lifts it toward me.
I do the same.
