She was as tall as he was with a slim figure and unlike the other soldiers didn’t wear a name tag on anything that could be read from behind. There was one other person in front of them in the line to pick up medications. The late afternoon light came through glass doors a few feet beyond her, lighting the edges of her auburn hair.

She turned her head to cough slightly and he could see Molly Sims freckles on her cheeks and the partial profile of porcelain features. After being in Basic Combat Training for six weeks he has heard that all females start to look attractive, but this one was truly beautiful. He wondered if she had ever modeled.

“Soldier, where did you bring those freckles from?” he asks her from behind.

She turned left to make eye contact over her shoulder.

“Texas,” she says.

“What part?”

“North of Houston,” she says.

No more women from Texas he told himself unable to break off the glance with her light colored eyes. He wondered if they were green, blue or gray and cursed the shadow that now covered her features.

“What company?” she asks.

“Alpha three thirteen. You?”

“What week?” she asks.

“Six, and you?”

“Us too. I’m in Echo one sixty,” he thinks she says. She was pretty, he realized, but only in that way that makes the girl next door truly desirable.

“Your MOS?” he asks.

“Avionics,” she says, not giving him a designator.

So careful not to fraternize, this is the way that male and female soldiers talk to each other platonically in Basic. Her last response broke the norm and he felt his pulse quicken. She hadn’t spewed out numbers and letters like eighty eight Mike, seventeen Juliet or sixty eight whisky. She wanted him to know what she was doing… avionics.

“And you?” she asks.

“Oh nine sierra,” he follows form.

“Which is?”

“An Officer Candidate,” he says.

“I’ve heard of that,” she shrugs.

He asks, “Avionics? Why not forty two alpha or maybe paralegal?”

“I’ve volunteered for Afghanistan. I want to fight. Plus, I will have a career skill to fall back on when I’m done.”

“How long you in for?” he asks.

“I took eight. Six and two,” she says.

“Reserves?”

“No. I’m active. Sold everything- my house, my car- burned the rest.” Her answer eerily echoes his own choices.

She became distracted by a soldier who ignored the sign on the glass doors. It gave instructions to exit down the hall to the left. She got his attention and pointed to the notice. He hung his head sheepishly and moved on.

“Guys,” she says. “No offense, but that one was particularly stupid."

“He missed his calling to be a Marine, maybe?” he says, and she giggles.

“Do you know if the bus will pick us up here this late or will we have to go get a ride from the stop at the Hospital?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs.

He asked her about her reason for being in the clinic and the tests that were scheduled for her the next day. She asked about his injuries. The Pharmacist called her to the window but he still didn’t catch her name.

As she walked away she looked back at him and waved.

Outside at the bus stop he caught up with her and sat down at her side. By now he’d finally seen the name tag on her right breast pocket. He looked straight forward and resumed the conversation.

“Did you leave much family to do this?”

“A large one. I’m the youngest and only girl. I’m adopted,” she says. This is normal for him to ask about family- it reveals subtle cues about a person’s inner world that help him interpret body language. He is looking away from as they speak to avoid the appearance of fraternization and her body language is lost to him.

“How old will you be when you are done fighting for the Army?” he asks trying to get a baseline for her age.

“Twenty seven and stable,” she answers.

She is either nineteen or twenty one and running from something. He is drawn into this exchange by her willingness to reveal the parts of her inner world that are camouflaged by their uniforms.

“Will you look back at that point in your life and wonder if a softer life with a male and children would have been better?”

“No,” she seems troubled by the question. “My parents are older. I know lots of women who have strong careers when young and children when they are mature enough to enjoy them. That will be me,” she says.

“Will your own mom regret this decision you are making? Regret that you didn’t give her grandchildren at a younger age?” he asks.

“No. But we have a unique relationship. I do my own thing apart from my parents.”

She pauses and comments, “You ask sensitive questions.”

It wasn’t a question but it was said in a way he felt compelled to answer. He was aware that a late model Dodge Charger is parked nearby. He likes the new lines, it reminded him of the muscle car roots of the original machine.

“Metaphorically, I’m driven to wear someone else’s combat boots,” he says. “You are a female soldier who could have done very differently. Your features are attractive and you are intelligent so I wonder about this career commitment you are making. Eight years is a long time for a nineteen year old.

“I’m twenty one,” she corrects him.

He let the silence hang. She shifted towards him and jammed her medications into her pocket. He waited.

“I worked as a personal assistant for some very wealthy people. I’m not afraid to travel. I’m not bad with stress,” she says.

“I want to fight,” she says again. She waits until he shifts towards her slightly, “You’ve probably figured this out but I don’t know how. I lived overseas a lot as a kid. We see things differently.”

In reality she is still a kid but he understands the coded message she has given him.

“Do my questions bother you?” he asks.

“No. You are the first person here who has really wanted to know me. It’s cool,” she says unconscious that she has pinched her name tag on her uniform with her right hand and is snapping it.

He asked her where she has lived and she gave him a list that is similar to his own. All are volatile third world hot spots. None are places where the U.S. military is active- she is not an Army brat.

“Are your parents missionaries like mine?” he asks, divulging the possibility that they have something in common.

“No,” she laughs. “Dad works for Exxon Mobil.”

He gave her his own list of countries and they talked about their common experiences living in the third world. She offered some insights about living abroad. Different continents and hemispheres but always the same world- this is what they do when they meet others like themselves and it feels natural.

“Have you noticed that being in the U.S. Army is very much like traveling in a third world country?” he asks.

She laughs genuinely at this with a big smile. He sees a small gap between her front teeth that would keep her from ever modeling if uncorrected. He guesses she moved to much as a kid to make the stresses of braces worth the investment.

Suddenly he is full of other questions. How many languages does she know? How many schools did she attend? He feels a sense of urgency. He feels they are running out of time. The bugles play for the lowering of the flag so they stand and salute with half a dozen other soldiers.

“Yes, a little,” she says finally. She tells him of the worst country she lived in. She speaks of all the extra security required for Americans to live and move there. She says as much or more by what she doesn’t tell him.

“That’s wild,” he says.

“I hated being a soft target. My mom and I were kidnapped once. I’ve seen terrorism first hand.”

He is silent.

And again she says, “It’s my turn to fight.”

He pulls out a pen from his left sleeve and opens his notebook. He taps the paper with the cap for a second before taking it off. He draws his feet back under the bench and leans forward without looking at her.

“Do you MySpace or Facebook?” he asks. “I want to keep in touch later when I don’t have to worry about fraternizing.”

“I’m a MySpacer,” she says. “Puppychowchicken.”

“Puppychowchicken?” he confirms.

“Yes, I’m listed from Juno,” she says.

He writes this down and shows it to her. Neither looks at the other. She touches the words he has written.

“I’m Cindy,” she says.

He has studied the strategies of Game enough to know that now he should ask her if Cindy is spelled with an “I” or a “y.” Her answer won’t matter because it is simply a setup to ask her a challenge question; something like, “Does this mean that you are careless with relationships?” There is no difference in BCT between flirting and fraternization so he keeps silent.

She touches his name tag as if adjusting his uniform.

“And what’s your first name?” she asks a nearly forbidden question. “So, I’ll know it’s really you.”

He tells her his first name. He tells her she ought to remember his last name which is his father’s joke. He tells her that she can find him simply by Googling his name.

“I’m glad you talked to me,” she says.

“I am too,” he says.

“Make sure you find me later,” she says quickly. She grabs his hand in a brief shake. He presses her grips firmly in return.

Freud is supposed to have said that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, he thinks to himself. The way she took his hand left him thinking that sometimes a hand shake is a breathless first kiss. They lined up with the other soldiers to get on the bus.

“Is that Cindy with an ‘I’ or a ‘Y’?” he asks. She answers quickly over her shoulder before being lost in the shuffle. He still can’t remember the color of her eyes.