He woke me up with a start when his arm around me started to twitch. Then his other and his chest. His eyes flickered. It reminded me of my dog starting and whimpering in his sleep as he chases imaginary rabbits. Then it got more violent and my mind crashes into the thought… he’s a Marine. I know what he’s thinking even before his hand starts slapping his his chest and thigh as he murmurs, “Where’s the magazine, where’s the magazine…” I’m absolutely shattered. No debate, no documentary, no news story has hit me harder than this. He’s 24 years old. I don’t know if I should wake him, I’m at a complete loss. Without thinking I take his searching hand and I hold it. I feel my face getting hot. A few hours ago I didn’t know this man from Adam, I don’t even remember his name. But a tear rolls down my cheek as I witness this unconscious and overwhelmingly intimate and horrible moment. His movements start to back down to twitches and eventually his eyes flutter open. He snaps his head back and forth and looks at me, lost.
“What day is it?”
“Sunday… Sunday morning? The 6th?”
He looks at his watch, “July.” He lays back and shakes his head softly whispering to himself, “It was real.” After a few moments he gets up and stares at something on his dresser. He picks up a photo and tosses it next to me on the bed. I pick it up and see him arm and arm with another guy about his age. He mutters an explanation, seemingly to me, but it’s very quiet and bitter. “He was my best friend in the world. He shot out like a bottle rocket.” A few moments of silence. He picks up the picture and replaces it on the dresser, then he comes and lays back down next to me. “I was driving.”
He alternates between staring at the ceiling and looking into my eyes. I stare back and I place my hand on his sandpaper cheek. I can tell his heart is still racing. I see his pulse barreling through his neck. “I don’t want to sleep.” He says softly, but firmly. I nod and I hush him with a kiss.
We fuck twice. It’s hard and fast and he does fall asleep again, but sleeps like a log. I drift away eventually as well. When we awake later he apologizes over and over. I shouldn’t have had to see that. I shouldn’t have had to see that. I just lay my head on his chest and don’t say anything, I can’t really. It would all seem hollow. He puts his arms around me and as we both start to drift off yet again. He says under his breath, “Any other girl would’ve ran away.”
Eventually after who knows how long of alternating light sleep and moments of fooling around he notices his watch and shoots up. Then falls back down on the bed, defeated. “I have a flight in two hours.”
I take my queue and start to get dressed. He lays there for awhile, but eventually staggers up and pulls on some clothes as well. As I’m putting on my shoes he sits next to me on the bed and says to the floor, “I hate North Carolina.” I coo empathetically. But what else can I do? The night is over. In two hours he’ll be flying there. In two days he’ll be back at camp. In two months he’ll be back in Iraq. Back at the bar he said it’s his last tour and he’s out. All I can think is, “hopefully.”
He walks me to the door. We say nothing and he kisses me on the forehead.
