The Sound of Language by Amulya Malladi

weekend and it was just us and the bees.
    Gunnar came home after dropping off the kids and started to talk about the weeds and the way the hedge was growing outrageously. We had had constant arguments with our neighbors about not cutting the hedge properly. Their side was always too high and I like it trim and proper.
    It happened right outside the garage. A bee was resting on one of my Karen Blixen roses. I was trying to wrench out a hoe from its hook to start work in the garden, and I don't how the bee got hit, but it spun around and stung me on my hand, right below my thumb. It hurt, but not as much as I always feared it would. And I had no allergic reaction, which was a relief. It wouldn't do for a beekeeper to have a serious reaction to a bee sting.
    It was all in all quite an eventful day. My first bee sting and the neighbors actually cut their hedge properly for the first time in ten years.
    F or days after, he remembered how the Afghan girl had winced and tears had filled her eyes when the bee stung her. But it could have been worse: she could have been allergic to the sting. As it was there was only a little pain, some irritation, and some inconvenience.
    The rest of her face had looked so pale compared with the harsh redness of the sting. She said nothing when he grabbed her cheek to force out the venom. She looked suspiciously at the onion Gunnar raced to get from the kitchen and then held to her cheek.
    “It's good for the sting,” he said, letting go of the onion so she could hold on to it. After a while she put the onion away and told him uneasily that her cheek was feeling better.
    He suggested that he drive her home instead of her riding back on her bicycle but she had refused, saying that she was fine.
    He felt horrible because he was the one who made her take off her hood and veil. But he'd wanted to share that first taste of honey in the spring with her. It was a taste he used to crave in the cold winter, the warmth of it, the freshness of the honey. There was nothing quite like it, he and Anna had agreed. But now the Afghan girl had a big bee sting and a swollen, red right cheek.
    By the next week, the swelling had gone down and only a small brown mark was left behind. She said she was fine but didn't suggest they go out to the bees. Instead she cleaned the house like she used to in the early days of her praktik.
    He didn't press her. The Afghan girl cleaned up the kitchen, living room, and dining room. She even folded the clothes that lay in the washroom. She did some basic gardening—pulling weeds and sweeping out the leaves—but she didn't go to the backyard where the bees were.
    Gunnar had not gone back since she had been stung either. There was no joy in going back alone. He wanted to go with her and show her everything, teach her about harvesting honey and making heather honey. She was so interested in everything he had to say; it made him feel good to have someone hang on to his words so carefully.
    But the house was sparkling clean, which even Peter noticed when he came for a visit on the weekend. He also remarked that it was a pleasure to see Gunnar sober after so long.
    “It's that girl Christina hired through the praktik program. She cleans. She isn't supposed to but she does anyway,” he told Peter.
    “What girl?” Peter asked.
    Gunnar had been sure that either Ole or Christina would have mentioned something to Peter and their other beekeeping friends. So he explained about the Afghan girl and her praktik.
    “You have some Afghan girl here all day? Are you mad?”
    “She comes just three times a week and she's not here all day,” Gunnar said, feeling a little defensive and surprised that Peter was reacting this way. First there was Christina, who had made him feel guilty for not helping the girl, and now Peter was making him feel guilty for having her here.
    “Don't you know anything about these refugee types? All they want is EU citizenship and to gouge money out of our welfare