He always called her honey. I’m home honey, he’d yell and before the phonecall, when she still loved him, she’d buzz down from her room. Bzzzz. But after she realised she was the drone not the queen, she started sticking to him a little too drippily. A touch too sweetly.
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She was wary of the bees. The funny thing was that she quite liked the uniform, the idea of a seamless suit; white, crisp and impermeable, concealing her curves. A genderless mask. But she knew that she would never get to taste their famous honey unless she unveiled her face.
oo delicious
Cressida picked the first bee of spring out of a flower, the tracing-paper wings caught in the pinch of her finger and thumb. Dizzy it was, and humming like something electric. Cressida dropped it into her purse, just as her mother had taught her, the bee a charm against spending.
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