The Date

Dust bathes the typewriter.  “The last visa,” she mumbles.

He grins.  “Now we have date!”

He shoulders his bayonet, drags her to a shed, and pushes her down.  “Sit!”

Eyes shut, she hears cloth rip.

He whispers, “Thank for typing.”  He touches her lips with the smooth brown fruit.  “Eat!  We have date together.  Eat!”