Honey
Imani Thompson
To my mum,
for reading every word
and
To my dad,
for making the dreams big
you are not a boy, you know; don’t pick people’s flowers—you might catch something; don’t throw stones at blackbirds, because it might not be a blackbird at all
—Jamaica Kincaid
Little girls whispering
Fly Birds Fly
—Olive Senior
The bee found its own way to the lemonade.
Of course she could have redirected. Called an ambulance.
Asked nature are you sure, him, today?
But then again, why interfere.
Why not sit back, enjoy the late winter light.
And watch the fucker die.
I
YOUR SILENCE
I
The message reads wuup2 today?
She’s already bought the goat cheese, beetroot, watercress, pine nuts.
w u up 2 today?
She’s already shaved, plucked, waxed—including her arsehole. She’s even—and she hates herself for it—hoovered.
What she was meant to be up2 was Ethan. She was, after cooking a supper that showed her casual sophistication, meant to be up, on, and about him in every which way she liked. She exhales, squinting against the sun, and types.
Thought you were coming here today? x
She regrets the kiss as soon as it’s sent. He won’t reply straightaway, that would be too courteous. She leans back against the bricks of the wall; Pembroke Street busy with cyclists and students. She scrolls Instagram. Refreshes the messages. Closes them. Opens them.
She regrets her outfit. This combination of denim and pale blue cashmere was meant for him because it makes her arse-to-waist ratio look amazing. The jeans do, however, ride up. She should change—she checks his last active time—Ethan’s hardly worth pine nuts.
As she turns to go he replies, like he can smell her course-correct.
Shit yeah, can’t make it. Thought I said?
[upside-down smiley face emoji] Got the flu
An excuse, at least he’s granted her ego that grace.
Sorry to hear, get someone to bring you soup.
She deliberately includes the full stop.
You could bring me soup [winky face, steaming bowl emoji]
The image of herself on a train down to London with a bag of chicken soup and uncomfortable trousers makes her, momentarily, want to scream.
Working all day. Hope you feel better soon x
She doesn’t just regret the kiss but the whole message. Working all day—like she would have gone if she could.
I’ll make it up to you [orange heart emoji]
He won’t.
She should end it, but—Ethan Brady is older by eight years, has a mortgage, and works in commercial law (human rights would have been better but she’ll take it). He’s also not white, has read bell hooks, and knows what to do with the clitoris. Meaning, in a world of low bars, he was coming in strong before he’d whipped her up eggs Benedict with homemade hollandaise.
They’ve been seeing each other for three months and this was the first time he was coming to hers. They’re not exclusive, but a week ago she deleted Hinge and started to wonder about calling him her boyfriend.
An older woman with a wheeled shopping basket approaches. Yrsa flattens herself as best she can against the wall. Difficult with her—how did Ethan describe them? “Type of rack that made Jay-Z cheat.” She offers the woman her best smile, which is returned with a tut. Well fuck you too.
She inhales. Exhales. Tries to remember what the Deliciously Ella app told her during her morning yoga: “This practice is centered on gratitude. I would like you to think of three things you’re grateful for.”
1. Her Rabbit, which she will now need tonight.
2.—
Yep, no, she’s in need of less wellness and more caffeine. The sun has triangulated the street in light. She crosses the road, walking toward the lecture halls. She’ll treat herself to an iced coffee. She’ll tell herself that spending too much on it is an act of self-love, wellness in practice, radical self-care. Lorde would be proud.
* * *
The desks in the department office have had a reshuffle. They’ve been reshuffled because Janice (likes to think of herself as head of department but isn’t) recently went on a management course and has since decided that it’s important to have “a more harmonious layout.” Yrsa doesn’t see what’s harmonious about her now having to sit in the corner by the recycling bin.
“Coffee?”
At least she’s still sitting next to the only two women she likes in the department.
“Got one, thanks.” She lifts her takeaway cup. “You’re here early.”
“I had rowing.” Skye is still in her sports gear, her sky-blue braids tied in a ponytail. She’s writing reminders to herself on sticky notes. “There’s a meeting tomorrow at ten, by the way, to discuss changes to dissertation marking. Joy.” Skye does sound quite joyful about this. “And they want exam questions from us by the end of the month.”
Also an undergraduate supervisor, Skye is everything that Yrsa is not. Rower, student union rep, heavily involved in the African and Caribbean society. She has 32k followers on an Instagram page where she details her uni life. She shares her breakfast every day and is the sort of person that Yrsa, typically, would hate. But there’s something so adorable about her and her tiny ears.