The good army wife.

And there it was. A pinprick thought. She pushed her chair back, put down her fork, exhaled shakily. Stared at the television, with it’s muted men in combat uniforms, now a procession, now cut to a politician, now a coffin, now a flag and weeping parents.

Not hers, but.

She loves this man.

Then her mind jumps forward, way, way, illogically forward to ten years in the future, as the widow of a deceased soldier, forming a group on base for other widows, organising now-solo parents, campaigning for veterans rights, and…

Being efficient in her grief.

She looks away from the tv, eyes tracing through the net curtains, out of the cheap motel glass and aluminium windows to the parking lot, minature garden, weathervane. This is a possibility. This is a possibility.

She asks herself the question: does she want to let herself fall in love with a man where this is a possibility?

And then: Is this even a question?