The lunacy takes hold Friday night on the boat with my beloved. I'd been away for two days, one night. Back home just shy of twenty-four hours. Next week, it is his turn to travel on business. Four days. Three nights.
We drink our beers with repeated toasts, crunch on kale chips and inoculate ourselves with each other's company. The night before, over dinner at our favorite fire-trap, where red sangria flows next to a lavish helping of perfectly prepared lobster tails swimming in a sauce of butter with flecks of parsley, our words take turns tumblings across the table.
There is always more to say. Thoughts to share. Theories to test. But when he cuts the engine, the sounds surrounding us tell the story.
This is the life.
The sun sets behind the hills ringing the west shore of our little lake. The moon rises in the east. Big and beautiful.
"Supermoon on Saturday," he says.
Super-size the moon, and I feast on a good ol' helping of crazy. I spend the day leading up to the night singing songs like "Moondance." Incessantly.
Rummaging around for my tripod yields no results. It is likely squirreled away in some box where all but the most necessary of our belongings are spending time, thanks to the kitchen renovation.
When night turns to day, I try to serve as the tripod. Try not to breath and blur the image as the hourglass on the screen tells me the camera is still processing. Try not to twitch as the mosquitoes feast on my flesh. I depress the button and the click serves as a signal to puncture my skin and suck my blood.
I complain, but try to remain still at my post. I want just one good shot. My husband complains, because this shutterbug insanity is interrupting our "Orphan Black" binge watching. (What is truly insane is that Tatiana Maslany didn't get nominated for an Emmy. Nuts.)
Time to sleep. I make another trip to the deck and fail to capture that alluring orb as is casts light into our bedroom, reflects off the water, across ripples that also carry the laughter of neighbors enjoying the first Supermoon of summer. (Two more will follow.) As Saturday turns to Sunday, they bark at the moon, high in the now-hazy sky.