Dear American Soldier,
Do you remember the night we meet in Dublin outside The Temple Bar? It was beginning to rain and neither of us cared. It was funny how you could make me feel like I was the only person in the world. That obnoxious laughter, I can still hear, ringing in my ears. Your voice, that horrid Yankee accent, I can only imagine saying my name in your childlike wonder.
I'm embarrassed to say you've won the bet. Don't smile, you git. I know you are, anyhow. I hope you are safe and comfortable, and most importantly obeying orders like a good soldier should. For now, I must go and tend to my own work. Remember to write back.
Sincerely,
Arthur Kirkland.
That night was something Arthur would never forget. He was walking home from his brother's bakery, cursing under his breath about how damned tourists ruined everything, although technically he was still rather new to the city himself, since it was not long ago that he moved from London to Dublin in order to get a proper job.
There was some sort of concert going on at the pub. Arthur had to practically push his way through the crowds on the streets, while avoiding touchy feely drunkards who should have been told to go home, but for some reason or another stuck around to dance and catcall lampposts. He kept his eyes narrowed, scrunching his nose, looking as determined as he could so that the message was clear. Arthur was not a part of the party and he had no intention of joining. At least until a certain man in the military uniform caught his attention or vice versa.
He was young, around twenty. His wavy golden hair and wide, toothy grin were the first things Arthur had noticed about him. A lot of people had noticed this tall, well-built American. His laughter and shouts about how cool everything in Dublin was, well, obviously caught plenty of attention. He was charismatic, easygoing, and something Arthur realized he wanted to be like if only for a little while.
Arthur lowered his gaze and shoved his sweaty palms into the pockets of his pants, lurking—however pretending to find something among the people to be ever so fascinating, while stealing a few heated glances towards the stranger. He didn't know why he did this, perhaps if he looked enough at the young male, the image of him would be etched in his mind for however long he wanted or needed it to be there.
Whether he was careful at being sneaky or not, Arthur wasn't sure if by chance their eyes met at that moment for fate or something else. His face reddened in an instant, only increasing in hue as he watched the cheeky American maneuver his way over to where he stood. He told himself that he would have to think of something to say that didn't make him sound like a blubbering idiot.
"Hi," was his first greeting, simple and more cheerful than one person ought to have been. Alfred extended his hand for a handshake while patting the Englishman's shoulder. "I noticed you lookin' at me and I thought I should come over and give you a better look. Ain't everyday a little ole' Brit gets to meet an American soldier, right?"
Arthur merely stared at him in shock. "Pardon me?"
"The name's Alfred F. Jones. But it's Private Jones, if you prefer that." He glanced down to his uniform as if it wasn't obvious enough that he was a serviceman. "I'm here for a little bit before they send me off, again."
"Oh, I see." Arthur managed his best smile and shook the man's hand. "I am Arthur Kirkland. I work in a bakery. Rather boring compared to what you are, isn't it?" He swallowed, cursing his sweaty hands.
"Not at all!" Alfred laughed. "I always wanted to work around food, especially cookies and everything!"
The crowd around them shifted, muttering apologies as they passed them by. The music still loud and the people reeking of alcohol, Arthur didn't really seem to notice. No, his attention was focused on the deepness of these man's eyes and the sincerity of his smile. If there were ever such a thing as love at first sight, it would have to be something like this.
"So Arthur, do you want to go somewhere and have a drink or something with me? Alfred glanced over his shoulder and grinned, noting how hard it was to have a proper conversation with all this commotion.
"Yes." That answer, while he didn't know it at the time, would change things for Arthur. A single answer would open a door that he didn't even believe existed. "My feet are rather tired from standing all day."
Alfred offered his arm and Arthur took it gratefully, even if hesitantly. They walked down the streets of Dublin and with Arthur's guidance found a place much quieter to talk and grow the very first seeds that would soon grow into something more than just friendship with what little time they had to spend together.
"Tennessee? What is it like?" Arthur chuckled, feeling himself becoming more comfortable around the American as they shared a drink and a bit of sweets the man had tucked away in his pocket for so called hard times. "Is it all cowboys and country singers? Have you been to Graceland?"
"Lord, no." Alfred nudged his side, laughing along with the Englishman. "It's home and it's not like people say it is, well, all that much. And I ain't been, but I really wanna someday. Maybe when I'm done with my tour and if you agree to go with me."
"But we're only just met, git. Are you going to propose to me next?" He rolled his eyes as if he were against the idea, but he did find great appeal in make believing that he and the tall, voluble man could actually have some sort of relationship. It could never work. It was plain to be seen, he convinced himself.
"Nah." Alfred wiped his lips clean of crumbs, stopping and then gazing up to the sky to see something which remained unseen. "We got time."
This, of course, flustered Arthur. "Time? What?"
Alfred didn't say anything for a moment, his eyes still locked above in a hypnotic trance. "If you don't mind, I'm kinda tired. So before I say goodbye to you and you fall madly in love with me and beg me not to go, I wanna give you my information so you can write me letters and send me stuff from your bakery, okay?"
"All right," said Arthur.
Alfred F. Jones had waved his arms high as he walked away. Arthur held the stained with God only knows what slip of paper in his hands like it were the most valuable thing he had ever owned. He would write and he would see this man again, if Heaven would only allow.