"It's a little weird holding hands with you," she said bluntly.
"Why is that?" I asked.
"It's your skin," she explained, "It being darker than mine, I keep expecting it to feel different, like it's made of rock or wood or something. But it's just soft, warm skin like mine. It feels the same as my mother's."
I couldn't help but laugh.
"You're the one who looks like paper," I told her, "I keep expecting to come up against something smooth and firm, but my hands sink right into you."
Her turn to laugh.
"Maybe once I'm on leave, it'll be a different story," she said, "All those days in the desert should leave me sunkissed and rough, just the way I expected you to be."
"It might be better than a stuffy office," I admitted, "Maybe while you're out gunning terrorists, my own skin will go from soft and brown to coarse and white."
"I'm looking forward to it," she hummed.
I leaned back with a sigh and she put her arm around me. If the war didn't kill her, maybe sitting catatonically in an eggshell office would rot me away. In any case, the flowers between us would bloom again after winter's end.
"I'll be seeing you again," she promised.
"I know," I smiled.