It's night-time, and she sits outside the flimsy little shelter that she shares with the only other girl who ran from the club, hands on her swelling belly, looking out at the city lights. There are more, now, than there used to be. Little pinpricks of gold against the velvet dark. Sequins, on a dress. The end of the war has been good, she thinks, for most people. Or, at least, for most of the people who count, the villagers, the good North Vietnamese, the soldiers who fought for the right side. The whores and informants and spies, they don't. Or the poor people who just happened to be the wrong side of the city walls when it fell. People like her.
She closes her eyes, and plays the scene she always does on the back of her eyelids. Chris. The way his hair felt against her fingers, the way his skin felt against her palms. The way he groaned her name. His blue eyes, his scars, his laugh. She wonders where he is now. If he's thinking of her. Of course he is. He must be. He's hers and she's his. That's just the way it is. The thousands of miles between them changes nothing. They both know that.
The baby kicks, suddenly, and she feels a smile pull at her mouth. It's cold here, cold and wet and dark, but she's got a belly-full of hope and dreams of him and she knows it's going to be okay.
A/N Please review! N xx