1 Benadryl. 1 Glass of Red.

Bethany writes;

The Black Fly is the unofficial mascot of the State of Maine.  It should qualify as "official" given that black flies suck and swill the blood from every Mainer during the months of April, May and June.  Tom and I theorize that they are chased out of Maine by the rounds of  illegal fireworks volleyed across the state on July 4th.

Last Friday afternoon I was in the back yard scrabbling about with a bucket and trowel, uprooting the thistle plants which had invaded our yard.  I had sprayed myself heavily with Citronella.  After 7 minutes of  digging, the Citronella had been sweated away.  At the 9 minute mark I was shrouded in a burka of black flies.  The tiny flies were sucking the blood out of me like a cherry Slurpee.

Tom, somehow sensing his wife's imminent ex-sanguination, stuck his head out the deck slider. "Hey, want to go on a trip into Camden?  We need stuff for supper".  I threw down the trowel with disgust and delight - disgust at the legions of thistle marching victoriously across the back yard and delight at the prospect of a trip to Camden.   In our years together, Tom and I have developed a rich language of "couple-speak".  In our marital dialect "trip to Camden" translates into "trip to the rekkid store".

I ran upstairs and, while pulling on fresh jeans and a clean T shirt, saw a sparkler spray of pink welts emerging on my arms and leg.  I popped a Benadryl to head off the rising tide of itchiness.

A quick stop at the big box grocery store supplied the fodder for supper.  Less than 10 minutes later and Tom was nimbly parallel-parking our hulking Subaru into a tight spot just outside of Camden Merchants' Co-operative.  This is a co-operative store displaying the wares of numerous local antique vendors.  Walking to the back of the store occurs at a slow stroll as your eye is pulled to the racks of faded silk blouses, cases of heavy necklaces and tie clips, sets of no-longer-fine china and  bookcases filled with cracked leather-bound books desiccating in the coastal air.

In the rear of the Co-op is  Spirit of Sound. When you walk through the doorway and into this rekkid room, the chattering sound of antique hunters quickly falls away; silent vinyl seems to absorb the ambient merchantile noise. The small space is crammed with bins of rekkids and album covers jackets emboss the walls.  An undercurrent of Billie Holiday softly cut through the air.

On this Friday afternoon, we were alone in the rekkid room.  I seized the opportunity and squeezed into a dim corner. I  lifted up the back of my T shirt and began to claw at an exquisitely itchy welt on my upper back.   A few moments later Tom abruptly barked with laughter.  I spun around, eyes wide, expecting to see a surveillance camera trained on my exposed back.  Tom was flashing the Vulcan peace-sign, holding the Nimoy record "The Way I Feel".  An intense but brief discussion ensued, resulting in Tom reluctantly refiling that acoustic gem.

Tom's spirits rebounded as the next bin contained an actual gem - the 1959 Mingus album "Nostalgia in Time Square".

In couple-speak, "trip to Camden" is a double entendre.  It means a trip to the rekkid store.  It also means a glass of wine at the local hip watering hole, 40 Paper.  We paid for our album and a few minutes later we were tucked into two high stools at the bar.  Tom sipped a glass of Pinot Nero and I had a Maipe Cabernet Sauvignon.  20 minutes later the mix of Benadryl and Cabernet began to work its alchemy on my brain.  I began to sense that my facial muscles were slowly sliding off my cranial bones.  And I began to giggle. about. absolutely. nothing. Tom looked at me and grinned.  He settled our tab and then ladled me into the passenger seat of the Subaru.  Once home, he fluffed a pillow on the couch and started to saute onions and garlic for the marinara sauce.  I curled up and slipped  into a deep sleep listening to our new Mingus album.  It was an epic nap. 

Photo Credit:  Wikipedia