Working bees is sheer
toil. They do not take kindly to someone opening their hives to steal the
product of their hard work of collecting nectar.
He silently paddled
the kayak through the chilly waters of the Kentucky River, alone except for the
occasional river otters slipping playfully down their muddy slides or the screech
owl beckoning mournfully from a redbud tree ready to open its pink blossoms
announcing spring in the Bluegrass.
Because over the past
three weeks Michelle had upped the ante.
Like the cherrywood
drop leaf, a fifteen dollar garage sale find she’d parked in front of the
window so she could look out while she drank her morning coffee or ate her
supper in the evening.
A closer look at the
pain on his face though had her using a gentler hand as she helped him sit up
so she could get rid of the shirt altogether. After studying the wound, she
headed back to the bathroom. A few minutes later she returned with several hand
towels, and a sewing kit she’d found inside a very tidily arranged drawer that
looked as if an obsessive-compulsive had directed everything line up just
exactly so.
She threw open the sewing
kit and selected the longest needle at least three inches in length, an
ugly-looking thing she would use only as a last resort.
Since he’d already
felt like a wuss once tonight back in the alley the moment he’d been rescued by
a woman, he sucked it up.
This morning during my
staff meeting, which should’ve held my interest and had me deeply engrossed in
the status reports from each of my department heads, I got curious.
