When The Sun Sets

6: Pick a War

Part One | Chapter Six: Pick a War

Atlantic City, New Jersey

May 1919

I haven't shared a room with Harry since before he left for the war which, after I calculate it, ends up being over a year and a half ago. He left in January of 1918 and returned in December of the same year. Two birthdays have gone by like this, in silence.

His habits, I assume, are relatively the same as they've always been and it eases me to know that when he returns from the bathroom and makes his bed, his routine hasn't changed much. Struggling to find a perfect position to sleep in, he flips and rotates from finding comfort on his back to settling on his side and then on his back once more, an arm slung over his stomach protectively. It's dark in our quiet hotel room, but I know he's awake, staring up at the ceiling, hair fanning over his pillow. I imagine there's a frown on his face, the gears of his brain turning almost audibly, but his breathing soft and barely detectable.

I have found it difficult to stay too far from him, overwhelmed by his body only a few feet away from me on the floor, my side nearing the edge of the bed, watching him as if I'm a guardian angel. I can faintly make out his frame, broad shoulders spread across the floor, his shirtless body pale in the dimly lit room. I wonder what he's thinking of, or if he knows I'm keeping an eye on him, too attached to keep away from him.

His words ring in my ears. He doesn't want to be touched by me. He doesn't want to speak of it.

After watching him for a good half hour, I turn to my back and look up at the ceiling myself, folding an arm behind my neck. If sleep comes to me with such difficulty, I can't imagine how it is for him, laying on the hard floor. I roll back over to look at him. His eyes are closed now, I think.

"Are you sure you don't want to sleep on the bed?" I ask him. His eyes open, but doesn't tilt his head in my direction.

"Yes," he tiredly answers.

"Just wake me up if you want to have a turn on the bed. I won't mind."

My words are met with silence despite an answer being requested. I found that after the war, if I asked him questions that required a yes or no, he'd be more likely to answer, even if it was a nod or shake of his head. Satisfied with these responses, I fear I've become too comfortable with it, and times like this are when I miss hearing his voice.

He turns to his side, facing away from me. Rejection stings me.

A few minutes pass in tense silence until he says, "Do you cry often?"

Surprised because this is the last thing he'd ever ask me, I reply,  "What do you mean?"

"Over me. Do you?"

The truthful answer would be that I do cry sometimes, but not enough for it to be considered too often. If something stings too hard or I'm in pain, I'll allow some tears, but aside from that, I pride myself with being resilient and just as stubborn with my emotions like Harry.

"You know I don't cry, Harry."

"Yes," he points out. "But you did today."

"I think I had the right to today."

A fog of thick tension hovers over us, impenetrable.

Harry clicks his tongue and sighs with exasperation. "You keep thinking it's you."

"What?"

"The problem. You keep thinking the problem is you and you end up hurting yourself by over thinking. Have you ever considered that the problem is me?"