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Our Bees [fic]

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All wounds heal in time. Thus has been whispered in the dusty crevices and fond, dusky annals of faded yet still luminescent memory.

And hearts ... you have begun to heretically speculate that hearts, too, bloom anew.

You have never had a gemeinschaft to call your own. You are not of a social disposition. Your soul is too warped and cruelly leathered, like storm-battered oak, for gemütlich gemütlichkeit, the company of companions; there is no space to let in another. Only your velvetine compatriots. Only your bees, the gesamtkunstwerk of your heart.

And you are likewise a world removed from gesellschaft, a societal form of association giving precendence to rational order and obligations to institutions, as opposed to Gemeinschaft (above). There is nothing rational about your crepuscular desires, no obligation that can tether your wayward, unbroken soul.

You thought this was destiny. Your solitude, your shame.

But now, you are face-to-face with a three-dimensional gestalt of how quixotically erroneous you truly were. Are.

It was serendipity that introduced you. Serendipity, and a single word, a bumbling tryptich of three syllables so ordinary, so theatrically mundane that it ought not by any metric of common decency to change the course of anyone's life, much less yours! To think that a gesundheit could be so monumental. To think that your life is beholden to such capricious dalliances of destiny.

It was your bees, of course. They are so much wiser than you.

And. And, of course. It seems an act of reckless, intemperate hubris merely to blaspheme the words.

It was also his bees.

They are as yours: as noble and aseptic, as glitzy and dazzling in the winsome manner of fresh-cut diamonds, as lustfully vivacious in hue. You thought your own were inimitable, but it was pomposity speaking thus, not truth. To see his bees mingle with your own makes you feel heady and incomparably mettlesome, as though you have just drunk deeply of Gewürztraminer.

They take pleasure in each other. They are beautiful. They make your spirit ache.

You are mortal and rough-hewn in comparison, the clumsy wooden xylophone to their shimmering silver glockenspiel, the gneiss to their burnished silver. He is the same. But you can see in the weathered imperfections of his rocky, human face the same aching, evanescent humanity that you feel in your weighty lodestone of a heart. You understand him. And the sensitive shadow of his eyes as they look at you, in pity and aching adoration, you know! You know he comprehends you equally.

Surely this is Götterdämmerung, the total, violent collapse of a regime, society, or institution, this reckless, untethered galloping in your breast. There is an anarchic tempest within you, violent and heartbreakingly beautiful in equal measure. You have an appetite, but not that of a common man's for cheap hamburgers or a hamster's for verdant raddchicio. Your appetite is for heat and blood.

As you move infentessimally closer to the beekeeper, your beekeeper, the shadows in his visage glow with a heiligenschein. Your heart gallops at uncountable hertz per second. Your net touches the gossamer of his net, and here, in the arcadian hinterland, you become the Kaisers of pleasure together.

His resistance goes kaput when you delicately feather your digits along his seasoned brow. And you -- you feel pure, cleansed by the touch. Like you've returned to your chaste and innocent kindergarten years, unadorned by even the smallest corrosive touch of guile or corruption. There is no kitsch, no artifice in your soul.

You are clean.

He has cleansed you.

To outside eyes this must seem the height of depravity, of lurid sensuality. He feasts upon you like a knackwurst, more violent than the schemes of all the boardroom practicioners of kriegspiel, warlike and lusty. You cry out, oh! The depraved sounds you make. There is melodious buzzing and crude animal howling.

But the joy you feel turns this moment into its own divinity. Paintings could be painted of this instant, surely. Ballads could be penned. Just as Kris Kringle in his gift-laden lager has become committed to myth, so too ought you and your bees and his bees and he himself be appointed to the pantheon of the heavens.

You come down, like a feather buoyed on the wind.

Your bees are quiet and content.

In this moment, this moment alone, aching and beauteous, it feels like you have finally achieved Lebensraum.

Only afterward, when he retrieves his lederhosen from the criminally rumled grass, does your shame and banal humanity return to you. With it comes the memory of all your flagitious imperfections. You are not truly pure, the way your bees have always been and will ever be. You are Eve fallen yet again to Earth, dirty and knock-kneed in the manner of a feeble, loathsome infant.

This weight in your chest shall ever be the leitmotiv of your life.

You live no longer in the time of myths and legends. Yours is the time of Levi's® and shaving cream and button-up shirts, crass and commercialized. No lied for you, oh no! Never for you. You are destined to dine on liverwurst and dying dreams.

This man knows you as he knows himself; there is no need for you to exchange words. You shared a moment, and were granted brief access to a heart that was whole. It was never meant to be anything but the sussuruss of a disappearing dream. You both know this. In a way, you have always known it.

Even now, he has turned from you, and begun his slow, odyssian descent across the loess. He, and those agents of true majesty, his bees.

You watch them go. You say nothing. Your bees, beside you, buzz with ruminative vibrations. You pet them delicately.