B: Where are you going?
E: Italy. I have a - a reconnaissance mission there.
B: Spying, you mean.
E: I won’t be able to keep in contact, I’m sorry.
B: Alright, well just promise me one thing.
B: A big word that. Just. Promise you’ll come home to me.
E: Here, feel it. It’s yours. It always has been.
B: I really hate you sometimes. Now, of all times?
E: I know. When all this is over, let’s go get dinner sometime. Or coffee. Or cocoa, I don’t know, your pick.
B: Dinner sounds lovely.
E: Good. I’ll be back soon. I promise.
It was almost two months before he came home, and in the end, I never found out what happened on that mission. He doesn’t talk about it. It was 1956 before I got that dinner. And it wasn’t even dinner, it was lunch in a cafe in Paris. He was ranting the entire time about France. Nothing much has changed.