The story continued ...

J shared her assignment from DD's Travel Writing Bus last month. I make her writing assignments my writing assignments, so DD is my mentor once removed (is that even applicable?).

The assignment: "Everything they say about wartime romance is true. When I saw my bride, she was in the most unravishing pose possible -- slouched against the wall in a windowless alcove, with both shoes off and her hair, which had become dishevelled when he had taken off her hat to adjust it, falling across one eye."

(from "Killing Rommell" by Steven Pressfield).

Write a story, up to 500 words, that starts with those two sentences.

My attempt:

Everything they say about wartime romance is true. When I saw my bride, she was in the most unravishing pose possible — slouched against the wall in a windowless alcove, with both shoes off and her hair, which had become dishevelled when he had taken off her hat to adjust it, falling across one eye. She stood there gasping for breath before breaking out into peals of laughter. He continued relentlessly, poking her sides and tugging her hair a bit more; the more she tried to evade, the more he persevered.

Her laughter rang through the quiet walls, echoing and mixing with his chuckles to produce a melody I longed to hear all these years. I stood there, observing her (and him), glad to be back. It took me back to when I first saw her at village festival—all dressed up in a pale yellow dress, a straw hat that covered her auburn hair and a pouch (which I would then see dangling on her wrist every time we met). She was selling pies —warm, gooey, strawberry, blueberry and cherry pies. I can’t remember what I purchased; all I remember was biting into a sweetness like never before. It must have shown on my face, for her gaze held on to mine in that knowing way. Her voice was even toned, not too shrill or too soft, and it sounded angelic to me, and when she asked me if I wanted more, there was no way I could say no.

It was her voice that lulled me to sleep in the cold trenches, her eyes that drove away the demons that haunted my sleep. Just the thought of getting back home, to her, kept me from doing anything stupidly heroic. She was my lodestar; my saviour who helped me endure all the horrible sounds that groaned and moaned and whistled their way all day and night.

Hearing her call out to him snapped me back to reality. They were running around, mindful of the sparse furniture, stalling, standing, teasing and laughing. There was so much fun and lightness to that moment that I hesitated to intrude. I stood there for longer, observing the changes in her. She looked taller and her hair was definitely longer. She was more womanly now; gone was that girlish charm that I remembered. Would her eyes still light up with warmth for me? Would her arms embrace and enfold me with love? Would she still remember those kisses?

I couldn’t hold back any longer. I pushed open the garden gateway and smiled as I spotted the rose garden in bloom. I smiled, remembering how much she loved her roses. As I made my way through the open door, I called out to her. They stopped immediately, froze and then she was in my arm and I knew I was home. I clung to her, happy and delirious, grateful and teary, kissing her with all the love I felt—our sweet and salty kisses that belied any anguish I may have felt. 

Now as I look at her, the eyes still sparkled with love for me, and I know her arms would hold me close forever. She didn’t flinch at my appearance, at the scars that marred my face, or even the loss of my arm. She held onto my hand, and kissed it; it was all the assurance I needed that I was still her man. Years ago, it broke my heart to leave her alone, a young bride, a stranger in a new place, yet I knew that our love would endure everything. And it had, she made this place blossom with love, my brother laugh with abandon. She filled my life with a hope that I knew would last us for now into forever.