Drew: Help you to a boner?
Me: Your brother almost saw that last one.
Drew: I wish this is where your hand was…
She sends a photograph of her palm sliding under the side of her short skirt. It gives me a glimpse of her red lace thong tracing over her slim hip. Damn, she’s so sexy. I jump up and head to the showers to take care of the boner in my pants.
Like some old cliché, months turn into years, until three years have passed, and we’re facing our last major campaign. I’m starting to understand why some guys become career military. So much time has passed, being here has become my normal. I don’t know what it will be like to be back in civilization, back around those people, back with Drew. I want to touch her so bad, it hurts…
As usual, her texts sweep my anxiety away.
Drew: Why would anyone say The Beatles are better than The Rolling Stones?
Me: Not a Beatles fan?
Drew: I love them, but it’s like comparing Barbara Kingsolver to Neal Stephenson. They’re both great authors, but they’re completely different genres.
Me: I’d compare Atwood to Stephenson.
Drew: Right! Except it’s still sci-fi feminist fiction vs. traditional, male-dominated world building.
>
Me: Sounds like you’re getting that summa cum laude.
Drew: Working on it.
Me: We’re heading out in the morning.
Drew: Last time?
Me: That’s what they tell us.
Drew: How long?
Me: Not sure.
Drew: Where?
Me: Classified.
Drew: Please be safe. I worry so much about you.
My chest squeezes the air from my lungs.
Me: I will, Drew-baby.
Drew: Take care of my idiot brother.
Me: Always.
* * *
Somewhere in North Africa
My back is to the wall of the narrow tower. Looking out past the courtyard, I see the trucks are loaded and waiting to take us out of here. Men holding guns line the perimeter, watching us. They wear white robes, vests, and olive green shemagh, or head scarves. Occasionally a woman in a black burqa scurries across the yard.
After three weeks at this palace, we’re pulling out, and I couldn’t be more ready.