She is alone in her bedroom, watching a small television. Three of her friends have recently married. Jennifer is heavy, her eyes deep-set and blue. The bombing will continue through Ramadan and Christmastime and she will do nothing to stop it. She has a faraway feeling, even her dreams feel peripheral, and this war is like that. No different. It simply hasn’t come. Love for Jennifer like a perfumed letter lost in the mail. She waits up with the late-night news, searches the crowd, reads his lips.
Love for Jennifer. Love for Jennifer.
Believe in me. I am here.