This night, late in the summer of 2011, Dane set on his bed staring at the wall-mounted picture of Ellen. He had never again seen that accusatory stare, yet he knew it was there. Her eyes followed him now. Sure, her visage never changed in the photograph, but those eyes were following him nonetheless. His Ellen was here with him, immortalized, her soul locked in this photograph.

He had thought of throwing her away, of dropping the photo in the trash and being done with it, but his own soul was in there, too. His soul and his body, his cancer and his pain, were locked in a never-ending embrace with this – dare he say it; he dared - this bitch.

She shouldn't have approached him in that bar. He had known that even then.

***

"There must be nearly fifty guys here, tonight, so why me?" he had asked.

"Do you see those men, out there?" she had replied with a flourish of her hand.

"Yes."

"Look at them closely."

Dane had looked, but all he saw was military men; hardened vets struggling to survive. He had told her as much.

"I see our troops."

"You see muscle-bound military boys, and many of them are just that, boys. They fight for our country, or whatever cause the Pentagon tells them that they are fighting for, and they're vets now, men, I suppose, but do you notice the difference between you and them?"

"Right now, I'd say the pretty girl at my side." He had winced even as he said it.

"That's lame, but I'll give you a pass on that one." Had she smiled then? He thought she had. "No the difference," she continued, "is that they passed through that gate and by those guards, sat here at this bar, and it didn't bother them. You see them smiling there, laughing as they tell their war stories? Sure, down deep they're hurting, and they know that what they've seen has changed them, but they're not wearing it on their sleeves. You, you're hurting openly. You see what's happening here and it pains you and," she tapped at his journalist badge, "you have no choice but to show it to the world."

Dane had grabbed his second Heineken from the bartender and took a long gulp. Still warm. As he swallowed down the beer, he framed his words carefully.

"So, what you're saying is, you're sitting here because l see the truth..." he paused, thinking over his next words, then continued. "...and I'm not man enough to keep it to myself."

"That's about it," she laughed, raised her beer (hers was an Amstel), and clinked her bottle against his. "To not being men."

"To not being men," he toasted back and laughed. Yet truth be told, he had felt some bitterness in that toast, and he hadn't liked her questioning his manhood. It was funny, in a mildly deprecating way, when the words were his; but from her the words seemed harsh, no matter how much in jest they were made.

***

Dane focused on her picture. She was haunting him, mind, body and spirit. He stood, smoothed the sheets of his bed, and went to the hall closet. His tools were in there. As he searched, he remembered that late June of 2006, just after they had met. He remembered their courtship through July on the streets and in the hotels of Baghdad. He remembered the passion.

***

Their fling – it was a fling, no matter what she, or even he, had convinced themselves to believe at the time – had been equal parts emotional solace and sabotage. In short, their relationship was incendiary. They each provided the other with comfort in a time of extreme anxiety, while also adding fuel to their own underlying flaws and then masking those tensions beneath a thin veneer of lust and sex.

By the end of July, that flame was flickering and Dane had realized that as much as he loved Ellen (the way that love can blossom in an instant when tangled with the physicality of sex), he also hated her. He hated the way she mocked him. He hated the way she looked at him with adulation, while holding herself above him; as if she were his teacher in the mystery of love and he simply her inept student. He hated her and he loved her with an equal and utterly destructive intensity.

The relationship was doomed to end. In the meantime, however, he had kept up the smile and the pretense and Ellen had maintained the same happy facade. They had both known that when their assignments were over they would be returning to the States never to see one another again. It was on their last night together, that Dane took the photograph. He had known that the next morning he would say his goodbyes, but that night he would capture the false bliss of this wartime romance.

The timer had been counting down as he rushed over to the balcony. Both he and Ellen were casually dressed, she as beautiful as ever in her loose blouse with her thick, red hair. There had been gentle waves in that hair then, and every so often a slight breeze lifted a few stray strands. Under his breath Dane had been counting down with the timer.

"Six. Five. Four. Three. Smile."

Ellen had glanced up at him, with a look of love that caught him by surprise. 'She had to know we can't last,' he thought. Still maybe she didn't know. He forced his smile, but as the breeze gusted up, whipping back her hair and snapping her blouse against her small frame, his smile had wavered. Did she actually love him? She had to have some clue what was coming.

The camera had flashed then, that blinding pop of light.

***

Dane grabbed his screwdriver and stood with a groan. The time to deal with this photograph had come. The cancer would not go, and perhaps his death was no matter of debate, but Ellen would not win. He would not simply let her take him away.