He places two hands around the pint of Guinness. Savours the chill that seeps into his flesh. Raises the glass to his lips and swallows; ice cold, sliding down his throat, the slightly burnt taste, the taste of home.
Ducks quack and preen on the village pond. The early evening sun is hazy amongst candyfloss clouds. She sneaks up on him. Kisses on his neck, laughter, her arms gripping him. He’s twisting, trying to slide free of the beer garden table, to grab her, to crush her to him so they can be one again. Then she’s in his arms, face masked by a spill of unruly blonde curls, his cool soft lips meet his, tears are shared.
“You’re home,” she says.
The sunlight blinds him. He can’t see her face, just that smile; the smile that means: everything is okay, you’re a good man, I love you.
He’s walking up the sloped garden towards the pub to buy her a drink. He doesn’t know this pub. Doesn’t know why he’s meeting her here, not the airport, not at home. He stumbles and is suddenly inside the pub. Loud voices. There’s a television on above the bar. A young soldier wearing sand coloured battle fatigues and a webbed helmet grips a machine gun and yells out of the screen.
He can’t hear the words. Why didn’t she meet him at the airport? She always meets him at the airport when he returns from a tour. He edges closer to the screen. A man bumps into him, elbows him in the chest.
He falls back, winded, pain flaring. He’s on his back and the young soldier is yelling into his face. The pub’s gone. He’s lying on dirt in a rough tan covered building. Bullets rip through a wooden shutter and puncture the back wall.
He tries to speak but he can only conjure bubbles of blood. He closes his eyes, smiles, and places two hands around the pint of Guinness.
