He loved the pretty dresses she wore, all yellows and reds and blues and pinks everywhere. He was sick of looking at tired men in dirty combat gear with blood streaks and bullet holes in them.
He loved her auburn hair and green eyes, the way they shone in the sunlight, soft and glittery and perfect. He always had fun trying to make out the dozen shades of colors in them.
He loved the way she smelled. She always smelled like fresh flowers in a garden in the middle of spring. Sometimes, he wanted to just grab her and never let go because there were no flowers like her in the other part of the world.
He loved the way she looked at him every time he did something silly, like spilling his coffee all over the countertop or snubbing his toe on the leg of a chair. The way she cocked her head and smiled that little smile at him before going over to kiss him. The way she frowned at him and playfully socked him one. They never hurt, no, nothing like the way shrapnel blasts or bullet wounds did.
He loved the way she kissed him. She was both tender and ferocious. She always tasted like mint from that mouthwash she used. She knew all the places that made him feel better.
He loved the way she could persuade him to do almost anything, even to the store down the street to buy her tampons or play the Penis Game in a stuffy, formal restaurant filled with stuffy, formal people. He never minded because it made her laugh and he loved hearing her laugh. It was a different sound than the ones he was used to hearing on the battlefield, different from gunshots and explosions and screams.
He loved the way she sang to him. Her voice was like honey in a jar, better than cold beer on a hot day, better than a cigar before an op. She sang sad songs and happy songs but he almost always preferred the latter because no one was ever happy where he spent most of his time.
He loved the way she cooked. She was forever ruining her meals. Burnt bacon, tasteless chicken and runny eggs. But he ate them anyway, because she cooked them all for him and he loved her.
He loved the way she cuddled into him during movies or just before bed. The way her head always found the right spot on his shoulder, the way she fit perfectly into his arms. She always said she hated his hair, but she liked running her fingers through it anyway. She would tell him about the things she did when he was gone but then she would catch sight of his dogtags, or feel them against her skin. She never continued talking after that.
He loved the way she made love. She was beautiful and alluring and she knew what he liked. The way she moved with him, the way she scratched those long, red lines into his back. The way his name tumbled from her lips, the way she felt against him. She was the only woman he wanted.
He loved the way she looked in his T-shirts. They were all much too big for her but she looked divine in them all the same. He always told her she would look divine even wearing a trash bag. She always laughed that laugh of hers, the one that was bubbly and infectious, and retorted that she would look better than him in one.
He loved the way she said "I love you" before he left their apartment after his weekends off. She always hugged him tight, like he was the only thing that mattered to her. She gave him enough kisses to last him a lifetime, and he appreciated it. She never let him see her tears but after the door shut behind her, he would stand outside for a full quarter hour, just listening to her cry. He always wished he could just return inside and hold her close and tell her that everything was peachy, but he knew that everything was not and there was nothing else he could do but to walk down the stairs and into his car and drive back to reality.