A Drop of Honey by Don Gaddis

“Bye, honey.”

He said it

with a casual

Southern-sugar-daddy-gentlemanly drawl.

Surely I misheard,

or he misspoke.

Honey.

My mind drifted

and pilfered back through the years,

as if rummaging through a tin

of empty candy wrappers.

Nothing.

No “Baby-doll.” 

No “Sweetie-pie.”

Just the one, platonic drop of honey,

newly planted on my cheek-ear

via random phone call;

the sonic equivalent of a reflexive kiss,

that which seldom passes

from one man to another,

even when blood

sticks the two together

amiably.

I... didn’t... know... how... to... feel,

other than embarrassed.

I had rolled around in it.

A meager drop.

Alas, my honey starved soil was human.

Either he misspoke,

or I misheard.

Or he really loved me.