Raven
Diamond Member
Hawaii, 2012
He told me I smell like gunpowder and and treason. "You smell like gunpowder and treason," he said, his first words to me with a smile that, from the way it met his brown eyes, I could tell he was boring, but in a pleasant way. A perfume I still wear sometimes that smells of patchouli and gunpowder. He had a slightly crooked tooth that I thought was cute. Brown-eyed, short, stocky, the opposite of my usual type. "Hey, Treason," he used to say when he would see me. "You'll have me in front of a firing squad for that," I replied. I started calling him Gunpowder. I coveted his Seagull. I would sometimes fleetingly think of him leaning roguishly against my rusty '91 Camaro and playing it. The Camaro is probably still abandoned on Oahu, half-wrecked. I don't recall sideswiping something. I don't even recall driving home that night. The car may as well have teleported from Waikiki to my front lawn in the idyllic base housing complex and gotten bashed up in the process. My own teleportation into my bed was evidently smoother. Young women get away with a lot. I still do.
I didn't feel restless in his presence. The sand still ran through my veins, shredding me from the inside. I still longed to be at war again. my deployment to Diyala had only been in 2009. Maybe I hadn't left my soul in the sandbox but I sure as f*ck left my nurturing instincts there--I'm not sure I had any to begin with, I'm a failure as a woman in that respect. I returned wanting only to destroy everything I touched. I moved out to Hawaii for a man who was unstable and intense. It seemed fun at the time, and maybe it was to a point, but I let it go too far. I put too much hope in him. He was more my type--tall, blue-eyed, and lanky. He was the sun, and I touched him; in doing so, I was burnt to ashes and then reborn. I like shiny things that are painful to behold. There is a thrill in the fallout. We married in 2012. We divorced in 2015. My ex-husband is irrelevant to this narrative.
Maybe not completely irrelevant, however, because he was the only reason I did not try to f*ck Gunpowder's brains out.
I recall my last conversation with Gunpowder. He had a bruise on his cheek. I wanted to poke it. "She was married," I told him, laughing. "I didn't know that at the time," he mumbled. "She has kids," I added. "I didn't know that either," he said, "but that explains why it felt like throwing a hotdog down a hallway. I don't know why her husband got all bent out of shape over that, I couldn't even get off." He touched his bruise and winced. "I hope you at least took precautions, who knows how many of you she's f*cked around here," I cautioned. He nodded. A long silence. He said slowly, quietly, "I wish she was you." I shook my head and said, "My flight is tonight, I know that we will see each other again one day. You will probably be cuffing me for a drunk and disorderly." I smacked his cover, trying to knock it off his head, but it was askew. He righted it and turned away from me. I took a twelve-hour flight to Newark, never to return to Oahu.
To be continued, after I find something to eat.
He told me I smell like gunpowder and and treason. "You smell like gunpowder and treason," he said, his first words to me with a smile that, from the way it met his brown eyes, I could tell he was boring, but in a pleasant way. A perfume I still wear sometimes that smells of patchouli and gunpowder. He had a slightly crooked tooth that I thought was cute. Brown-eyed, short, stocky, the opposite of my usual type. "Hey, Treason," he used to say when he would see me. "You'll have me in front of a firing squad for that," I replied. I started calling him Gunpowder. I coveted his Seagull. I would sometimes fleetingly think of him leaning roguishly against my rusty '91 Camaro and playing it. The Camaro is probably still abandoned on Oahu, half-wrecked. I don't recall sideswiping something. I don't even recall driving home that night. The car may as well have teleported from Waikiki to my front lawn in the idyllic base housing complex and gotten bashed up in the process. My own teleportation into my bed was evidently smoother. Young women get away with a lot. I still do.
I didn't feel restless in his presence. The sand still ran through my veins, shredding me from the inside. I still longed to be at war again. my deployment to Diyala had only been in 2009. Maybe I hadn't left my soul in the sandbox but I sure as f*ck left my nurturing instincts there--I'm not sure I had any to begin with, I'm a failure as a woman in that respect. I returned wanting only to destroy everything I touched. I moved out to Hawaii for a man who was unstable and intense. It seemed fun at the time, and maybe it was to a point, but I let it go too far. I put too much hope in him. He was more my type--tall, blue-eyed, and lanky. He was the sun, and I touched him; in doing so, I was burnt to ashes and then reborn. I like shiny things that are painful to behold. There is a thrill in the fallout. We married in 2012. We divorced in 2015. My ex-husband is irrelevant to this narrative.
Maybe not completely irrelevant, however, because he was the only reason I did not try to f*ck Gunpowder's brains out.
I recall my last conversation with Gunpowder. He had a bruise on his cheek. I wanted to poke it. "She was married," I told him, laughing. "I didn't know that at the time," he mumbled. "She has kids," I added. "I didn't know that either," he said, "but that explains why it felt like throwing a hotdog down a hallway. I don't know why her husband got all bent out of shape over that, I couldn't even get off." He touched his bruise and winced. "I hope you at least took precautions, who knows how many of you she's f*cked around here," I cautioned. He nodded. A long silence. He said slowly, quietly, "I wish she was you." I shook my head and said, "My flight is tonight, I know that we will see each other again one day. You will probably be cuffing me for a drunk and disorderly." I smacked his cover, trying to knock it off his head, but it was askew. He righted it and turned away from me. I took a twelve-hour flight to Newark, never to return to Oahu.
To be continued, after I find something to eat.
