The three honeybees sat looking out into traffic from their spot behind the gigantic picture window. Golden hair was constantly in motion, flipping from one side to the other, revealing alternate sides of smooth, shining necks. Red lips placed, and removed, themselves delicately from the thin, fragile panes of drinking glasses. Eyelids fluttered in the heat of conversation. Inside, the honeybees were speaking in tongues. None of the three honeybees would remember the conversation. Words were meaningless. All was performance: each gesture a gracious bow or elegant curtsy.
“Hi honeybees, my wife and I saw you on Tuesday night, sitting at a table along the window at the Avenue Bar and Grill. We hoped to stay for the performance, but we were embarrassed, in our shabby clothes, and so we only continued to the pharmacy…”
By the time the two returned, frozen hands clenched tight in their respective pockets, the three honeybees were gone. The table was empty, a void, and the many diners behind it seemed ashamed to be so exposed, as if they were missing something vital.