they became friends when he moved in next door. she was a bit of a pacifist and was not the type to fall for an ex soldier. he had left the army after three tours of afghanistan. he was beautiful physically, had a finely tuned body and apart from the scar on his face was about one of the most handsome men she had ever met. he was unemployed, the government, it seems was less keen to help those that had fought for their country than it was to help violent offenders leaving jail.
they would sit and chat on her stoop, and over the weeks and months that they got to know each other she grew to realise that he was not like a soldier as she had imagined soldiers to be. he had a gentleness to him as well as a toughness. he told her how, as a teenager, he had wanted to serve his country and had perhaps been idealistic in this. he told her stories of such bravery and self sacrifice, stories of comradery and of men weeping openly at the loss of each other. he kept his medals in a box in a drawer and when she asked why he didn’t display them openly, he looked at her in such a way that told her she hadn’t understood the horrors of war. he got up and made her another cup of tea. she could’ve cried.
when he told her that he was still a virgin, she almost squealed, and inside she did. time and circumstance had contrived against him he told her, it wasn’t like he hadn’t wanted that, but he had reached the age of twenty-five and still hadn’t known a woman.”wasn’t gonna just fuck some whore for the sake of it” he told her, one day he would meet the right woman.
she melted, worse, she became obsessed with him and the idea that he was a virgin, barely aware of how much she had fallen in love. she spends her time folding sheets and washing her kids’ clothes, imagining how she could show him, how she could teach him how to be good to a woman.