"Is that what I’m doing?" she asked. Under different circumstances, it might have sounded flirtatious. Coy. Maybe even charming. If they were in a pub somewhere, wearing jeans and drinking beer, it might have all  been very different. She stopped to grieve, if only for a moment, for the couple they would never be. They would never be laughing in a pub, giddy and bright and happy; there were only these little moments, tiny, desperate fragments broken off from the oppressive cloud of the war around them. 