He wasn’t a honeybee—and he liked it that way. A solo act with a shimmer, a schedule, and a little salt addiction.
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He wasn’t a honeybee. Never was. Didn’t care for the group chants or synchronized waggle dances. No, he was freelance. A sweat bee.
They named him after what he loved—your sweat. Not exactly poetic, but hey, sodium’s sodium.
Most days, he kept to himself. Pollinated a little here, napped in a coneflower there. Wore his signature look: iridescent green with a bit of attitude.
The bumblebees mocked his size. The wasps? Arrogant jerks.
But today, perched perfectly on a bloom burning orange at the tips, he knew one thing:
Nobody glistened like he did in golden hour.
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