Marge Paper groaned and held her aching head between her hands. She had already taken three extra strength aspirin with a glass of orange juice that had nearly made her throw up again. If she could just get the coffee going and maybe get some food in her stomach, she might survive this hangover. Again.

Her hands trembling, she finally managed to poor water in the proper compartment, add the filter and coffee to the basket and turn it on. She collapsed into a kitchen chair for a moment. Where the hell had she put her cigarettes? Ronald didn't like her to smoke but he wasn't here, damn it. She spotted a pack on the counter top and wearily got up and lit one.

Yuck. Menthol. Must belong to Larry, or Harry, or whoever the hell she had left in the bed. She walked down the short hallway and peered in. He was still asleep, sprawled among the bed covers. She was pretty sure his name was Larry. Well, he was in the Army too, just like Ronald. Hell, he was even a lieutenant like Ronald. Funny how that was. Ronald would never have been in a dive like that one last night. But then, neither should she have been.

She walked back to the kitchen. Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she gulped a mouthful. Not hot enough. A vagrant thought crossed her mind. Her mother had always made coffee in a percolator. Now that was hot coffee. Burn the lining right off your throat. This morning that would have been nice. It would have taken off the fuzz left from all the smoking and drinking of the night before.

She really loved Ronald. They had discussed his projected Army career when they first talked about being married. She thought she had accepted that he would be gone for periods of time. She was sure she could deal with it. She had heard rumors about how the clubs around a base would fill up with wives as soon as a unit was deployed and had been certain that she would never be one of those.

As it turned out, the abstract was much easier to accept than the concrete. When he went off on his first training rotation she was unbelievably lonely. She had gritted her teeth and made it through. She had hoped the second time would be easier. It wasn't. Then she was dealing with her pregnancy and the birth of their son. It made things easier because she was busier, but it also made it harder because she was much more tired and grumpy at times.

Then finally she had enough. On a Saturday night she asked her next door neighbor to sit Ron Jr. Sylvia was happy to do so. How she managed to remain so cheerful while her husband was gone Marge never could figure out. But Sylvia didn't ask any questions when Marge asked her to watch her son on an occasional night.

She had been determined to keep it all on the safe side. She had made it clear to anyone approaching her when she was out that all she was looking for was conversation and a chance to relax. Maybe a dance or two. No slow dances. Well, maybe just one. It had felt so good, just being held by someone while they moved in a slow circle around the floor. And if she closed her eyes and laid her head on a muscular shoulder, she could imagine it was Ronald.

Larry had commented on that last night. When they were dozing after the first round he asked "Who's Ronald?"

"What?" she had answered.

"Ronald. You kept calling me by that name."

She had cringed then and cringed again remembering last night. Last night. Last night. Last night. Just another night at one of the clubs that lined the street stretching out from the post's main gate. She couldn't even remember the name of the club. Shit, why should she? She couldn't even recall the name of the man in her BED for God's sake. She could only remember bits and pieces of the night.

The music had been loud and fast. She had always loved dancing and had spent that night on the floor. For those minutes out there, undulating to the music and some nameless stranger she could forget how lonely she was. She could squeeze her real life into a box and tie it shut and be single and 20 and wild again.

Well, she wasn't. She was 24 and married and a mother. She had drunk too much beer, but that was an excuse, a straw to clutch at. It didn't excuse what she had done, anymore than the fact that the man she had danced that long, slow dance with had been good looking and charming. It didn't excuse leaving with him, the fumbling against the wall of the club in the dark shadows. It didn't excuse the wild kissing, the feel of his hands under her skirt, her hand on his straining hardon threatening to break free of his jeans.

"Oh my GOD, what have I done?" She buried her head in her hands and cried.

What she had done was bring a stranger home and fuck him in her bed, in THEIR bed. Shit, it hadn't even been that good. He was no match for Ronald. What she really craved had not even been sex, but to be held throughout the night. And he had rolled over and started snoring as soon as they were done.

"Okay," she said aloud. "You fucked up Marge. You're no better than those 'every night with a stranger' wives you despised."

"Alright," she challenged herself. "What are you going to do about it?"

She almost laughed at holding a conversation with herself, but there was nothing funny about it. Then and there she decided.

"I screwed up. It was no one's fault but mine. Well, I can't undo it. I can't unfuck that guy back there. But I can damn make sure it never happens again." She paused and pounded her hand on her thigh. "What the FUCK were you thinking?"

She slumped further in the kitchen chair. The cigarette she had laid in the ashtray had burned down to the filter so she stubbed it out and lit another one.

"Yuck." Her stomach revolted again. She crushed the cigarette out and refilled her coffee cup. She stood and crossed to the refrigerator, drinking the black coffee as she went. She rummaged through the food, pulling out eggs and bacon.

The knock on the door made her jump. Nobody ever came by on Sunday morning. Perhaps it was Sylvia wanting to know when she was going to pick up Ron, Jr. Sylvia never said a word when Marge asked her to baby-sit but her disapproval was clear. Marge sighed, wrapped her housecoat around herself and got up.

When she wrenched open the door the bright sunlight forced her to close her eyes for a minute and brought her headache right back. She managed to open them and gasped. The caller was Lieutenant Colonel Davis, the Acting Post Commander. With him was a medium height, dark-haired woman Marge recognized as his wife from the occasional Officer's Wives Club functions she had attended. They were accompanied by one of the Post Chaplains. She thought it was the Episcopal one, even though she hadn't gone to services much since Ron had been gone.

"Mrs. Paper, may we come in?" The stern older man phrased it as a question, but it obviously wasn't.

She stood aside and shrugged.

"Sorry, I wasn't expecting visitors," Marge mumbled. She tried not to show the embarrassment she felt at the disheveled appearance of the house. Generally a fussy housekeeper, she had let thing slide down hill more and more as the time Ronald was gone lengthened. "Just like myself," she thought, suddenly remembering the sleeping man back in the bedroom. She needed to get this, whatever it was, over in a hurry before he woke up.

The trio closed the door behind them. Colonel Roberts took a deep breath. He hesitated and looked for a moment at his wife. Marge felt something flow between them, as though the woman was passing strength to her husband. He turned back to her and squared his shoulders.

"Mrs. Paper. The Secretary of the Army regrets to inform you that your husband. Lieutenant Ronald Paper, has been killed in action in Iraq facing an armed enemy of the United States. Further details will be forthcoming as they become available."

A giant hand squeezed Marge's heart. She screamed, staggered and would have fallen if the woman had not caught her arm and supported her.

The two men stood silently, watching the older woman assist Marge to the couch. The momentary quiet was broken when footsteps echoed down the hall. The young man, Larry, Marge finally recalled from some dim corner of her mind, burst into the living room.

"What the hell is going... oh FUCK!"

"Good morning, Lieutenant Hall." Larry blanched as he recognized the Colonel, who continued. "Lieutenant, perhaps you could find time in your busy schedule to come by my office tomorrow morning? Shall we say 10 AM?"

The young man nodded, gasped out a hoarse "Yes Sir" and rushed out of the room. Shortly there was the sound of the back door closing and a car took off with a squeal of tires.

"Mrs. Paper, is there anything we can do for you?"

Marge barely comprehended the Chaplain's words. His attempts to comfort her seemed no more than meaningless noises. The fact that he was trying so hard to help her made Marge want to turn away even more.

Finally, after a few more formal sentences, the visitors left. The Colonel's wife lingered in the doorway and then left, closing the door behind her.

How long Marge sat on the couch, her mind filled with conflicting thoughts and images, she didn't have any idea. She had cried until there weren't any tears left. She was reliving her whole life with Ronald, from the first date through when he left on the bus going to the airfield. Recalling her final words, and realizing they had been yet another complaint and whine, rather than supportive and loving. God, what a bitch she had been. Whimpering, all about "me".