Airplanes

     "When you walk out that door," Matilda shrieked quietly, "Nobody will be out there to help you. Mom and dad won't kiss your cuts, because they won't be cuts, Charlie. They'll be gunshot wounds! And you'll be dead!" Her young, flawless porcelain cheeks were stained with red from tear droplets. Her almond eyes were a little bugged for those of any other twelve-year old with such beauty that she inhabited.

     And I had to leave her.

     "I'll be back by your birthday, Matt. Promise. I'll be alive by your birthday." No, I thought, don't let her see you cry, "I swear they'll probably just assign me to a desk in an embassy. I'm sure I'll be far from any danger. I'm nothing special."

     "No, Charlie! You said you wouldn't cry!"

     Darnit.

     "I'm, I'm not." I looked around the airport, at all the staring eyes that quickly deserted when I met their gaze.

     "No one will be out in that sand mirage, Charlie."  Matilda dropped my hands, readjusted her boots, turn turned with a sharp sneer, "I hate you, Charlie. For leaving me, when you promised you never would! I hope a triggerhappy soldier puts a bullet in your brain, Charlie! I will dance on your grave!"

     She turned and ran.

 

     So much for a pleasant goodbye.