Tsuba. Lines of life, pain, drawn down his face, ran away from the house, “So close.” He thought, and he remembered the years of pursuit, and of hope, and of anger, and of love. Yes he remembered that emotion. That fucking deceitful treacherous blissful status of living that drove men to madness.
It was late afternoon by the time he had found his way back to the bus. Francesca greeted him,
“Got rid o' him at last?” Tsuba nodded, still lost in thought. He was tired and hungry, she had made no fire so he headed off to forage. Dusk had settled by the time he had prepared some food for them both. She ate noisily between swigging down even more grog than usual. Later he helped her on to the bus where she fell to snoring immediately. Tsuba returned to his fire, his only true companion. He foraged for enough wood to last the night and prepared to sleep beneath the stars.
Tsuba looked into the fire and far far away. Thousands of miles and seventeen years into the past,
“You were carrying my child.” visions swam in and out of focus, how they had walked out of Cambodia in 1975, defeated but in love. The years on the road, taking what they needed on the way. War had taught him to kill. She had taught him to cry.