Didn’t you get my text message?’ ‘Your text message?!’ she said her head snapping up to lock onto his gaze. ‘Your fucking text message? Yea I got it. You fuck me and all I get is a text message. Next time spare me.’ ‘So, there’s gonna be a next time?’ he asked, the corners of his mouth turning upward. ‘Eat shit,’ Desiree grunted. Desiree watched as the lines around his eyes creased and his mouth formed a tight straight line. He looked older, and tired. He had a five o’clock shadow and his dress shirt was wrinkled and rolled up at the sleeves. He must have just come from work…or another woman’s house. ‘C’mon, let me explain.’ Desiree shook her head ‘You don’t have to explain anything to me, I’m not you’re girl.’ Desiree tried to inch past Gabriel, but he moved to block her path. ‘Don’t be mad at me, Dessie,’ he said changing tactics. He slowly and seductively ran his fingers along the side of her arm trying to make her forget why she was mad at him. ‘Please,’ he said in a hushed voice. Each year, he observed the file of crippled soldiers, long since passed their usefulness to a society, doing it's best to forget for the other three hundred and sixty four days, except in the glorified films of heroic deeds with John Wayne, or another popular actor, leading a squad of crack troopers into an impossible confrontation, overwhelming odds, somehow beaten at the loss of one or two, good men. The silver screen could not convey the disease, shit, fear and boredom of warfare.He had watched the ruins of buildings rebuilt, almost in unseemly haste, as if to purge the lingering scars of destruction from sight, from memory. Mental scars could not be expunged from the mind so easily. Time is the only healer, and that, not very successful.Every year, the ever dwindling numbers of ex-service men, filed along the Mall, a proud march, to lay wreaths of poppies at the Cenotaph and pay their respects. Each had a story of the last world war, holding memories of fallen comrades and.
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