Free Redeployment by Phil Klay

I thought, How long can we stay like this?
    That close to her, I was afraid I’d get hard. I wanted to kissher. There was no one but me and her in that room, and I knew she didn’t want me. In that little system of me and her, I was the nothing. I had this sense of looking at myself from above, like all of my wanting her was there in my body and I was outside of it, watching. I knew if I crawled back into my skull, I’d start begging.
    I rolled onto my back and looked at the ceiling. The cat got up, too, and walked to the headboard, rubbing himself against it. Rachel turned toward me.
    “I’ve got to go,” I said, even though I didn’t have to go or even have anywhere I’d rather be.
    She said, “How long are you around?”
    “Not long,” I said. “Mostly seeing family.”
    I wanted to hurt her, somehow. Maybe tell her about the woman in Vegas. But I said, “It was great seeing you.”
    And she said, “Yeah, it was great.”
    I sat up and put my feet over the side of the bed, facing away from her. I waited, hoping she’d say something else. The cat jumped off the bed and over to his food bowl, sniffed, and turned away.
    Then I got up and walked out the door without looking back. As I went up the steps and through her backyard, I tried not to think about anything. And when that didn’t work, I tried to remember the name of the woman in Vegas, like if I did, it would protect me.
    That woman, Thirty-eight, had seemed so unwilling. I was almost certain that what happened with her couldn’t be called rape. She made no complaint, never said, “No,” never resisted. She never said anything. After a few minutes, she even started bucking her hips toward me in a sort of mechanical way. Shewas so drunk, I guess it’d be hard to say if she wanted it one way or the other, but if she had really objected, I think she’d have said something to try to stop me.
    How drunk the girl was, whether she really wanted you or whether she let you, or was scared of you, that doesn’t bother most Marines when they get laid on a Friday night. Not as far as I can tell. I doubt it bothers college frat kids, either. But walking back from Rachel’s, it started to really bother me.
    I was quiet when I got home, and I was quiet later that night when I went out drinking with a few friends from high school. They weren’t close friends. I didn’t have close friends from high school. I’d spent all my time with Rachel. But they were good guys to share a beer with.
    As the night wore on, more and more people came into the bar, and it got to be a regular high school reunion. I kept wondering if maybe Rachel would show, but of course she didn’t. I drank more than I usually do. It made me start wanting to tell stories.
    One of the guys there, who was a few years older, told me he had a cousin who’d died in Iraq. At first I thought, Maybe I processed him. But the cousin died before I got in country.
    The guy was a mechanic, and he seemed like a sympathetic sort of guy. He didn’t talk about killing hajjis or act like it was so awesome I’d been over there. He just said, “That must have been rough,” and left it at that. I don’t remember his name. Once I got drunk enough, I told him what I’d wanted to tell Rachel.
    It was a story about the worst burn case we ever had. Worst not in charring or loss of body parts, just worst.
    This Marine had made it out of his vehicle only to die inflames beside it. The other MPs from his unit had taken his remains from the pile of trash and gravel where he died and brought him to us. We documented his wounds, distinguishing marks, and missing body parts. Most of what made it through the fire was standard. He had the Rules of Engagement in his left breast pocket. The flak had protected it, although the laminate had melted and the words were illegible. He had charred boots and dog tags and bits of uniform. Some plastic mess in a butt pack we couldn’t identify. A wallet where the credit cards and IDs