"Where will you be fighting ... your Corps?
"Germany."
Eyelids pinched tight, as she slipped on her skirt, she tried to pray, a prayer from her childhood, a prayer her Lutheran pastor had taught: nonsensical, not labelled for adultery, unlabelled for war.
"Will your hospital job get any easier?" he asked, pulling on his sock, sitting on the bench.
"I hope so..."
Dear Orv, I want to be your wife, I want to give you everything you want. Orv, I want to make things easy for you. I want us to have kids. I want us to be happy. It might really happen to us ... we can't tell. Maybe a farm, a Wisconsin farm, nine acres, white house, red barn, maple trees, pines, birch.
"There's a lot of hay in Wisconsin," she said, in a strained voice, wishing to say something amusing, maybe something sensible.
Orville nodded.
He was slipping on his shirt.
Crows specked the sky ... the swallows were above the field. The sun was much cooler, ready to blink out behind clouds.