Unnamed

Coming into our bedroom full of concern, she lies down beside me and snakes her hand into mine. "Well? Did you get signed up? Was it packed?"

"Sorta, and no." Sometimes I'm a man of few words.

"What do you mean 'Sorta'? The Army's not full or anything."

"Just 'cause there's a war on, dear, doesn't mean that they're drop all the red tape. Just have to wait until tomorrow for the test results. I'm just a bit upset. The guy there is a racist, and I'm not sure there's anything I can do about it. Just plain rude."

"I'm sorry, baby. I'll make it up to you, promise." And with that she rolled over to me with a devilish grin. The rest of the night was filled with --- well, it's none of your ruttin' business. No offense, you see, but I'm of a mind that what goes on in the bedroom stays in the bedroom. Just like Vegas, but you don't know what that is.

Some sweaty, exhausting, enjoyable hours later, I was still awake. Staring up at the ceiling is an old past time of men, be it stone, brick, wood, or stucco. Was this really what I wanted? Would I really make the Special Forces? Why do people like Swiss cheese? I spent a good deal of time that night, pondering these questions, mainly the last one. I mean, it's really disgusting; no one can honestly like it. So I'm not a serious person, I'll admit it. Coming to the conclusions of: no one really likes Swiss, I shouldn't have had the pizza, and I was fully committed to the Army.