Just for tonight he is determined to forget the war.
When he wrestles the borrowed Willys to an abrupt halt (much like reining in a high-spirited horse), near the front of the row house where she is billeted, the guttural rumble of the motor once shut off brings the stillness and quiet of the velveteen night into soft contrast. No explosions. No gore. No lingering cries and pall of death.
No medic. And no nurse.
Just the two ordinary them.
Her front door opens and she steps out in a split-second flash of yellow light before quickly pulling the door closed behind her. Blackout restored, she is illuminated only by cloudless, traitorous, moonlight. Not that he notices the moon. In her best dress she could easily be mistaken for a starlet instead of an angel of mercy. Lip rouged red lips replace blood stained hands, and at the sight of her, his breath catches in his chest.
He is smitten. Stumbles self consciously from the driver’s seat around to the passenger side where she is buttoning her coat against the chill, and gallantly offers her his arm. Teetering in seldom worn crimson suede heels, she is touched by his gesture. Gathering her dress around her legs-a little higher than she had intended-she climbs into the jeep, affording him an accidental glimpse of her gartered thigh peeking out from under a lacy blush-colored slip.
His face colors blush as well. It’s inevitable. Just as tonight, when bombs start to fall, he will be forgetting the war. At least for a little while.