two horses at the same time." She said with all the weight of being a child survivor of World War II but the admonition came light as air because it was advice to someone else.
"Not like I'm holding up the line," the writer snapped back. And it was true that the "crisis" had Godsmacked the whole financially co-dependent world into the righteous-enough-to-proceed (pay to play) and the cast offs. A young person just deciding college or other path was being pressure-forced to decide what to do with your life that was a muck of entwined with world.
That so many had been directly involved with sudden warfare and grown up quickly in some ways wasn't somehow magically solving the crunch crisis of who should do what next. The most qualified had kept cover or been exposed as the Cold War dissipated into diplomacy and striving to be pensioners-some-day career professionals. The latest baby boomers were gaining in Academic and professional acumen. And the warriors who'd come together as allies were re-entering global workforce.
"Make up your mind."
"About my life?"
"No. Dummy. At least about an appetizer."
"Maybe some fiction for a bit."
"And for your main course?"
"Have your lawyer call my lawyer," men's conversation rose over "take aways".
"Sorry chica, gonna have to skip to the special Hungarian dessert and more strong black coffee."
Two other sometimes special correspondents slid into the small table seats. A hand squeeze for a goodbye without tears. "What's that supposed to mean?" One answered for the other, "War correspondents don't die, they just fade away."
"Want coffee or tea or something?"
The underground on the late afternoon sidewalk spilling from place to place was getting louder. "They're going to pay us to escort them back to Europe."
"Who is? I thought
"Our boyfriends!"
A toast of coffee and air-raised imagined drinks. And the two went out the back way to the train station.
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