"In literature, as in love, we are astounded at what is chosen by others."
She had a worried face; lines creased her brow and gave her a look of despairing concern. And by the time he realized she was frowning about something she was reading in the newspaper, he was halfway across the street. He sat down on the bench next to her and greeted her with his customary "Hello, how are you?" She glanced up and nodded in response to his greeting, then returned her attention to the newspaper. She did a slow, methodical double take, and as she studied him he felt his ears burn. The scars on his face seemed to glow bright red. She asked a question that was always asked of him. "Were you in the war?" He always lied and replied no, for he hated pity. The woman redirected her gaze to the newspaper, and he noticed that one of the names on the latest casualty report was circled in dark pencil. "My boyfriend was in the war," she said, her voice breaking. She suddenly stood and threw the paper on the ground. "He must have just died yesterday. I hope he died for something worthwhile." He watched her as she stalked away. She weaved in and out of the trees until he couldn't see her anymore. He bent over and picked up the discarded newspaper. He then looked at the circled name and recognized it as his own.
MORE TO COME!
