Lucia
On arrival in Rome the train edged along the platform.
A man took his crutches and helped him down the steps. The Italians were
deferential to American uniforms.
Christ, he needed a drink before he met Lucia. She had
become a burden. After the blood of battle he needed to breathe; she wouldn’t
allow that. Lucia smothered him. The two months he had known her were turning
into a life sentence. His head buzzed after their argument, which had turned
into a noisy scene of flashing teeth and talons.
He found himself outside a bar. The windows ran with
condensation, and the ragtime was loud. He could see a sailor. The girl on his
lap wore his hat.
He pushed towards the bar and ordered. The glass slid along
the bar, spilling some of the Bourbon. The drops sparkled on the zinc counter.
A brunette sashayed by. He caught her arm and she smiled.
Ciao, Bella...Addio, Lucia.
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