"Put your head on my lap..."
"Bend over..."
"Now..."
"Yes..."
"Okay..."
"Hmm ... more..."
Silence!
His hand cupped a breast; she ran fingers through his hair; shall we ever marry? In some architectural office will he bend over blueprints, and then pick up his phone and say ...?
We'll never have a house like this one--not seven bedrooms. Ours ... three bedrooms, $24,000. That would be okay.
She thought of her life: her dad had been a dirt farmer plus rural teacher, he had never had much time for home; his health had failed under demanding jobs: skinny, hard featured, hard headed ... Orville must never get like that. I must get him out of the war, somehow, somehow!