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Chapter 10

That was back when we first met, when

his hair was a mass of curls I loved to clutch in fistfuls when we

made love, when the thin lines around my eyes weren’t yet visible

and I didn’t get dizzy if I stood for too long. He was fresh out of

school and full of ambition, and that time we spent at Coney Island

was the last week of his civilian life, before he was assigned to

the 49th and they sheared his curls like sheep’s wool.

The day of the haircut, he came to my

quarters with a harsh frown marring his features—he knew I loved

his hair, and he was so afraid I’d be upset that it was gone. I

remember I made him stand at the foot of the bed and strip off his

clothes to prove to me they hadn’t shaved everything, and then he

crawled into my arms, naked and warm and laughing, and I spent the

rest of the day rubbing my hand over the prickly cut of his

hair.

A tear falls from my eye and lands on

the glass covering the photograph, a drop like rain that blurs my