With them came hundreds of Yanks, both to service and fly the planes. June had left the village at the beginning of the war, going to work in the operations room in the depths of a Whitehall cellar. She was a small cog in a large machine, but her work was important and rewarding. She was born in Little Dunsworth and might have been expected to hate the hustle and bustle of London, especially under wartime conditions. However, she had loved it from the moment she arrived. It seemed so full of life and vitality, despite the all-pervading air of danger, or, perhaps, because of it. What little leave June had was spent with newly-acquired friends and she visited home infrequently and briefly. Her parents might have been disappointed that they saw so little of their daughter, but they always tried to hide it. She was grown up, she had her own life to lead. Then there was Michael. They’d known each other all their lives and a relationship had developed almost without them realising. When. ‘I forgot what kisses were for.’ Martha whispered before leaning back into her side of the booth. It was three weeks prior to their coffee date when Martha first happened to imagine the better angels of her nature ridding themselves of their gowns, wings outstretched to the already naked devils coupling among themselves. The food for that thought was a short piece of Louis’s fiction. Their Adolescent Literature instructor asked his students to bring in work of their own fiction, work that reflected adolescent conflict, which could perhaps be used as valuable lesson sources in a junior or senior high school class. When it was Louis’s turn, Prof. Wrighte read his piece aloud, and Martha found herself staring at Louis. She made particular notice of, and found delight in his expression, which changed depending on what he liked, or disliked about the sound of his work. Louis’s story related the details of one especially gratifying pair of kisses he’d exchanged with some young European.
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