Miss Barkely's True Love

Blind and still, he thought of Catherine in those last few moments, dreamed of walking with her on crisp cool days in London, their clouded breath glowing in the gaslight, remembered the days leading up to his deployment, when he wanted it and she wanted to give it but they were certain they had forever coming and besides waiting was so much more romantic than a hurried, desperate thrusting now, with the war pressing down on them; it would be too much like goodbye, so much like taking an opportunity that might not recur—this was so much better (they thought), as if by waiting to consummate they were rendering death impossible, as if by denying themselves this fulfillment temporarily they ensured its eventuality, but war was cruel and death crueler and neither cared much for lovers’ promises and possible futures, and he knew he was dying, knew how he was dying: shrapnel pierced him like a volley of arrows and either he had lost his limbs or was paralyzed and he was falling asleep beneath the warm blanket of his own blood, a sheet too thick for this muggy July day, and like a virgin sacrificed to the bog he knew he would never leave this muddy trench. The murmuring Somme churned red nearby.