He gives his backside a few resounding slaps, takes my hand and repeats the action. When the letter has been put away in the side pocket, he lifts his body until he is arching over me like a bow and looks at me from under his arm. He is lying there with a bare bottom, I think, his pants are coming off and he hasn’t even noticed. I can touch them if I stretch out my hand. As his body, leaning over, edges further forwards, I can see that his shorts have got stuck and that the naked spheres of his buttocks are emerging from the bunched-up material. The soldier sits up and, reaching across me, tries to tuck the letter into a pocket in the side of the tent. The fly buzzes up the slanting walls and I can see a patch of grassy field and the cloudless sky through the open tent-flap. I grope sideways with one arm and touch the cold barrel of the rifle. He grips my hand and my heart throbs in my ears: everything has gone too still, why doesn’t he say something? When I swallow I have the feeling it can be heard all over the tent. I must remember that for later, then I can write to him. I don’t have to be afraid, he is a nice man, anyone can see that. I can see the gentle curve of his back and the breath moving his stomach. ‘So?’ he says and adds a questioning, ‘Now what?’ As he touches my hand, I notice that my fingers have gone numb and are ice-cold, as if they are about to snap in two. Walt snatches the little card from my hand, pushes it back into the album and folds his letter up.
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