"Remember me, oh, remember me," she cried, holding him tight as he went to the door. And the girl's tears wet his front until the smart white shirt was translucent; her hair tickled his chin so that he laughed one more time. It was the laugh that she loved so much.
"Of course I'll remember you," he whispered, smiling. "Who could ever forget you?
Siobhan -- seventeen years old, brown hair, grey eyes, clear skin -- looked at her calender. Only two weeks had passed, but it seemed like forever. With a sigh she picked up the sewing from her bed and tried again to concentrate, but it was to no avail.
"How am I supposed to make clothes for troops," she wondered, "when all I can think about while making them is how Andrew might never come back?" She thought of her young lover, a handsome man with dark hair and eyes she could lose herself in. He was a soldier.
I tried to stop him, she remembered. I tried, but he would not listen. Doesn't he love me enough to stay here, for my sake? Doesn't he realise how much it hurts me when he leaves?
Her tears spilled over her pale cheeks, landing on the bedcovers. Angrily, Siobhan wiped them away. She didn't want anyone to know that she had been crying, because they would think her weak. "And I should be glad," she said aloud. "My fiancé is brave and courageous and has gone to fight. I should be glad. I should be proud of him."
However many times she said it, Siobhan couldn't make herself believe the words. This is all wrong, she whispered in the darkness, where nobody could hear her. This is all wrong. We should not be fighting, and Andrew should not be holding a gun.
But she couldn't stop the fight. Siobhan wiped away the last of her foolish, weak tears and stared at the floor. She gave up on the sewing--it was pointless. Casting it down on her desk and quickly undressing, she succumbed to the soft arms of sleep.