There is a war outside the glass. She cannot see it, but she can hear it. Subtly blaring horns and rifle shots, then silence for too long of awhile.
She continues in the kitchen with her soup. The bones of last weeks chicken and this weeks chicken all warm well and fill the house. It softens the atmosphere. This is her second batch. The dog will get the bones after this.
The sky has been laden with mist and clouds, letting out swift heaves of rain every few hours. She is like the rain, her eyes. Not predictable when they will pour, but guaranteed.
Was the war raging one month ago? Hard to remember now. Sun polluted the skies so much so that any fighting must have been outshined. And the trees were turning, of course! Everyone must have been distracted as she had been.
There is much work in the home to do. Paint is chipping, seals are leaking in the heavy downpour, and even inside the house she can feel the wind. It is the type of world where turning on the light too early feels like an offense.
She has a man well-fed each morning and sends him off. Far away he goes, works, avoids gunshots, and returns. Each evening they fall into a similar, quiet routine. Hardly ever do they talk of the war.
What is the use, they both must figure? Will the war stop, or swallow them whole if they mention it? It is so much bigger than the both of them, like an impassable mountain.
Years back, in the buds of their love the two hiked a lot. Even then, talks of war echoed along the canyon walls and carried in the clouds over them, but never tread much further. The hiking and climbing led them to lakes, thousands of feet high. Both would swim and shiver, and lay themselves out without words. Nothing could reach them there.
The war was right outside, humming at the edge of the stoop. She never saw blood, never heard screams. War is nothing like they taught of it, she thought to herself. He should be back soon. What then?
Another day, another day, and he would still have to go out and fight eventually. She would resign herself to an empty kitchen albeit the chicken broth and have more time she doesn’t really need.
She wants him to go, to get all this over with. He is right though, surely if he had joined any earlier he would have been killed. Maybe now is the right time. After all the war must end sometime and soon is sooner now than back then.
They talk of it, as if they hadn’t noticed the blares and shots before, at dinner in the evening. Soup. It all comes out like vomit, necessary and uncomfortable, relieving while skinning the edge of death.
She worried she was pushing him into something, maybe it was best to stay idle and continue brushing it along. He too felt this for some time, but now his expression changed. He faced the window as a man called to action might. She watched his hard eyes, already mourning them.
All at once she was relieved, warmer to him, and heartbroken. What was to come of them and all this? In the previous months, her prayers changed for both of their successes, opposed to their sustainment. Maybe God brought the war to the window.
The kitchen, after he left, was terribly cold and empty. The dog slept in a different room than usual, sensing the conflict. Would he return that evening? Would she have cooked for two? Every second hung over her like a heavy eyelid.
Love is a brutal thing. Years back, the man dreamed of going off to war and leaving her on the shore. As he drifted, waving toward her, he watched as she lowered her arms solemnly and sat on the beach. He turned and looked at the sea ahead.
On his way out the door that morning, the woman kissed the man and he held her tightly like they had when they first met. All sounds and fear froze for one second. She let go and they looked at each other gravely, then softly.
He kissed her one more time and left. Sun broke through the grey sky in tiny patches. The streets were quiet.
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