Passion.
Smoldering.
That tingling feeling.
The anticipation mixed with excitement wrestling just below the surface.
Second after painful second, the moment nears.
The smell of her perfume fills me.
Our faces close.
My heart races.
Our eyes lock.
Our lips touch.
Finally.
The bullets zipped overhead, snapping and hissing so close they could smell death on the air. The gray sky stifled life in its grip and nary a man desired to leave the trench. But courage is found, somehow, when the whistle blows.
We reached with arms too short.
A dangled carrot before us.
Life.
Unfair.
Taunting us.
“Leave the spot of comfort you own.
Dive over the cliff!
Into the sea of the unknown.”
Complacency beckons us to stay.
Over the edge we go.
They teach you.
They train you.
They prepare you in every way they know how.
Breath in.
Lower your heart rate.
Breath out.
Squeeze the trigger.
But nothing they do will ever prepare you for the aftermath of taking your first life.
“No.” I simply said as she stepped out of the dressing room.
“Why not?” she countered.
“It’s way too short.”
She folded her arms in obstinate defiance and responded, “But I look cute in it.”
I snorted. “Fine, go ask your mother.”
Thoughts from the Front 