Pentimento

In the two weeks he spent with her, he remembered, he became adroit. I can always thank her for that, he thought. Marines taught me to shoot. She taught me to fuck. She had always encouraged him, never criticized, never judged.

“You can talk about anything,” she said, “my little Mr. Marine. You don’t have to be tough here.”

When she went to work he would stay at the apartment. She seemed able to set her own schedule at her job, and usually went late in the morning and came home early in the afternoon. He had learned very young to feed himself, and now he bought groceries and made supper. They would eat together in the little kitchen. She would light a candle.

In bed she made him feel heroic. She twisted with pleasure. She cried out with it, calling him “my dearest boy, my dearest boy.” He had never felt that way before, or since. He’d been tough early, and he’d been brave enough when he had to be; but only in her bed, listening to her gasp with the pleasure of him, had he ever felt heroic. He was a man. He would take care of her, all his life he would take care of her. The memory was harsh. But he couldn’t leave it alone. His memory kept going back to it, replaying it, feeling the hot, erotic pain of it. A fucking man, he thought. Mr. Fucking Marine Man.

Three days before his leave was over, in the darkness, enveloped in her heat and smell, he pressed her hard and told her he loved her.

“I know,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, “we haven’t known each other very long.”

“Time doesn’t matter,” she whispered.

“I have to go, day after tomorrow,” he said.

“Shhh.”

“I don’t know if I’ll come back.”

“You’ll come back,” she said.

“Maybe, maybe not,” he said.

“I’ll wait for you,” she said.

“Would you marry me before I go?”

It was out. He heard the question linger. A tangible thing, suspended in the dark.

“Of course, little Mr. Marine,” she said finally. “Of course I will.”

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