Circa September 1940:

The train station; almost all monotonously brown. Neat uniforms next to flowy dresses; countless wives, sisters, and mothers, teary-eyed as they hugged their loved one. For you, it was Benjamin James ‘Benny’ Henderson, your beloved husband. The draft spared no man, and fate had decided to put your loving marriage under trials, threatening with taking away every comfort you knew.

You had got married just two mere months ago; when Benny had received the notice his number had been selected to fight in the fronts. Wanting you to receive all financial compensations a wife should get, and with the overly romantic idea of wanting to die married to you, he had proposed ahead of what your family had considered the ‘appropriate time’.

Both his large hands were placed on your hips, thumbs tracing the soft—yet thick—fabric of your coat. His head was titled to the side, his military cap just barely covering his brown eyes. He could feel your despair by just locking eyes with you—and deep inside, he was just as worried—yet he tried to remain calm, reassuring he would return to you.

“Sweetheart, I will write as much as I can, you know that—and I expect you to do the same,” his southern drawl just lightly slipping through. He swayed you to the sides, as if you were dancing, wanting you to focus on the moment. It felt as though you were back in the summer that had gone by about a year and a half ago; following him around in Coney Island, holding his hand as you danced.

Benny’s hands traced over the carefully curled hair, appreciating the strands. Then, his thumb moved to your red-stained lips, still keeping his other hand in your waist. He placed a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth before pulling back with a mischievous expression, “C’mon dollface, smile for me, will ya? Can’t have me leavin’ with the memory of those glassy eyes, no matter how pretty they are.”