The Soldier
by Sarah J. Den Boer

 He always sat in the corner on a cooler that held his uniform, a uniform with Chef Boyardee spilled on the sleeve and gauze bandages in the pockets. Beer bottles warming by the window. In his bedroom, a sign reading Welcome to Valhalla on the wall and a mattress on the floor. When I came over the first time, he gave me the last three squares of toilet paper. Bald at twenty-seven. Feathered lines by his eyes and a gait as wide as a wheelbarrow. Hands as big as dinner plates. He called me muffin. I wore his helmet with the medic badge tacked on the front. I didn’t mean to trip when I put on his army boots. I didn’t mean to put on his boots. He brushed stray eyelashes off my cheek with his pinky finger and washed silverware in vinegar. I learned to make fruit salad with lemon-lime soda and listened to his theories of landmines. I saw where the Canadian flag on his uniform was stained, saw the dust from Afghanistan. Knew the bullet wasn’t for me. He sat in the corner, knitting steel wool into armor. I drank sangria and perched on his brown plaid bedspread. Watched the rain hit the window. When he kissed me, the room felt like a desert. I loved his dog tags tapping and tapping against my chest all night long. The way he held my earlobe between his thumb and finger.

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