Ian Slater - WW III

“I think you’re wonderful and I love you and — I’m so afraid for you.”

“Maybe we should put it off then until—”

She placed her finger on his lips. “No,” she said softly, shaking her head, resolute in her decision. “No. We’ll get married as soon as you come back. As we planned.”

There was a taping on the front door, and from the living room Robert could see the small red light that came on as whoever was outside also tried the chime bell.

“Chime doesn’t work,” said Rosemary, getting up and brushing herself down, looking presentable as she walked toward the door.

Outside, a policeman was standing beneath the porch light, rain glistening on his cape.

“Yes, Constable?”

Rosemary came back, her shapely figure outlined in the spillover of the kitchen light, one hand on her chest in relief.

“What’s up?” Robert asked.

“The drapes. Apparently there’s a slit of light from Mummy and Daddy’s room.”

As she walked down from her parents’ room and he saw her silhouetted again, this time in the faint hallway light, he didn’t think he could control it any longer. Nor could she.

He took her by the hand, and in the darkness of the living room they made love.

“Tell me…” she said, “promise me, you’ll come back.”

From the coast came the dull thudding of antiaircraft fire and the high, swishing noise of missile salvos, and he remembered Lana’s premonition of danger, her counsel to give love, to have love, while one still could.

“I’ll comeback.”