He grins. “Do you like to taste yourself on me, Charlie?”“Like you have to ask,” I reply as I lick my lips, dabbing the corners of my mouth.�...I am asking. Tell me.”“Of course, I do. I’ve wanted to taste myself on you for years.”“Yes, so you say...” His voice trails off as he traces my lips with his tongue. I grab onto the front of his shirt, wrapping my fingers into the soft fabric, pulling him closer to me when he suddenly grabs my wrist.“Nu uh, Miss Charlie. No… no… no…” he says as he shakes. He had been there, contemplating, for two hours or, ignoring the chill and watching the day unfold. How he hated this Sunday each year, hated the march of veterans, but was drawn in some morbid fascination annually. Each year, he observed the file of crippled soldiers, long since passed their usefulness to a society, doing it's best to forget for the other three hundred and sixty four days, except in the glorified films of heroic deeds with John Wayne, or another popular actor, leading a squad. More

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