Patchouli

She's a tiny woman, comes barely to my chin, but persistent. Her makeup is powdery and has flaked like snow over the collar of her neat navy blue suit jacket. There's a near perfect quarter shaped circle of rouge on each crepe-ish cheek but her lipstick is crooked and her mascara is smudged. She's clutching a glass a wine - clearly not her first- in one pudgy fist and she reeks of patchouli, a fragrance that always reminds me of bug spray. She's noticed my old Nikon and wants her picture taken. I nod and smile and climb off my barstool and she takes my hand and leads me to her husband, a wispy, white haired older man who looks desperately frail and more than a little confused by the smoke and noise of this dimly lit, smoky bar.

This is Jack, she tells me and pats his hand affectionately, He was a staff photographer for the newspaper for years. And I'm Marilyn. We're so pleased to meet you!

At the mention of the newspaper, my heart sinks a little. It's too late to regret having giving her the business card she asked for, my best hope is that neither of them will be able to read it in the bad light, but it's not to be. He adjusts his trifocals and peers at it then at me.

Are you related to....he begins and I dredge up another smile.

Used to be, I say, hoping to nip this in the bud, but it was a long time ago.

Why, Marilyn, he says, look who this is!

The tiny woman produces a pocket flashlight from her purse and squints at the card.

How were you related, dear? she chirps, We knew the entire family.

Yes, indeed, Jack adds, I could've worked for National Geographic but.....

Would you like a drink, dear? Marilyn interrupts and shines the little flashlight in my direction, What a small world it is! Jack, she's going to take our picture! Where would you like us, dear?

You're fine where you are, I assure her, wondering if I'll ever get away, Just give me your best smile.
I focus and snap the shutter - once and once more - and Marilyn thanks me with a girlish, suddenly shy giggle then wine glass in hand, snatches at my elbow until I show her the screen.

Oh! she cries, It looks like we're in love! Will you send us a copy, dear?

After I turned down National Geographic.....Jack begins but she tweaks his cheek and tells him to hush, Just write down our address for her, honey, and finish your drink. She downs the remainder of her wine, orders another, then turns to me with a cartoonish smile. Now, tell me, dear, is your ex-husband still living? Did you get any of his money?

Over her shoulder I can see an old guitar playing friend at the bar and I shoot him a pleading look, praying he will understand and come to my rescue. A moment later, a hand descends onto my shoulder and a gruff old baritone drawls 'Scuse me, ya'll, but it's time for our photographer to earn her keep. He slides one arm around my waist and steers me firmly away while Jack and Marilyn raise their glasses and wave bewildered goodbyes. I'm so grateful I could kiss him.

It isn't that I mind these little flashbacks to a former life. A small number of people know I married into a prominent, wealthy, newspaper owning family - just as they know I left it - but my musician friends don't think it's important and it isn't something we talk about. They accept me for who I am now, not who I was or who I happened to marry in a prior life. It's just that for most of that first marriage, I kept to the shadows after we moved to the south, making and treasuring only one or two dear friends, content to be a decoration and a good wife, much like a well dressed pocket watch. I didn't care for the spotlight then and I don't care for it now so with apologies to the occasional Jacks and Marilyns, I find a barely accessible corner by the stage where I can shoot the music and those making it in peace and quiet. And maybe escape the haze of patchouli that latches onto me the way a cat will find the only person in the room who isn't a cat lover. The insecticide aroma makes my eyes water and my throat want to close.

Some memories do exactly the same thing.