There was nothing but a muffled thump of music when I knocked on Cara’s door for the third time, but the door was unlocked, so hesitantly, I let myself in. “Cara?” I ventured. No response. (Really going to get myself killed one of these days.) Then the black and yellow-striped ballet flats in the hallway caught my eye. I was washing my hands in the kitchen sink when Cara walked in. “Oh, you found it!” she said jubilantly. “I was on the street looking for you.”
I met Cara at the Bee Ball a few weeks ago, where I was selling honeyed popsicles for a gala fundraiser meant to support the legalization of beekeeping in New York City. I’m writing an article about beekeeping in New York City, so I’ve been going to lots of bee-related events; plus, it was an opportunity to sell popsicles and to support a nonprofit I like. Cara, in the adorable bee costume above, came up for a popsicle, wearing the distinctive homespun shoes that allowed me to recognize her apartment when I trespassed there a few weeks later. I watched her from behind my booth as she danced all night. She was irresistible, flowing from moue to caprice to shimmy with ease. She was having a blast out there.
Given my article, it seemed legit to probe into her reasons for becoming a beekeeper. They spilled out like marbles from a pitcher, slow at first and then a flood, and before I knew it, I’d been invited to dinner.