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When Brendan snuck out at night, he could see the stars: stretching endlessly, a beautiful tapestry of the universe. It made the summer of ‘72 uniquely special in ways he couldn’t explain. The stars illuminated his pale face and the few scattered trees overlooking the waterfront, casting a graceful light over all they could touch. Brendan stared at it all, smiled, and wiped a single tear from his face. He stared off into the distance. She was late.
It took Eva five more minutes to arrive. Brendan tried to mask his solemnity as she approached, and greeted her warmly. She shot back a cursory grin, and let their superficial tidings fade into the night.
“Do you have it?” she asked.
Brendan didn’t say anything. He simply nodded and grabbed a piece of paper from his pocket. The top of it read “Order to Report for Induction.” The rest wasn’t worth reading. That alone could kill any semblance of joy latent in either of them.
Eva just stared at the paper for a while. “So this is it, then?” she asked.
Brendan nodded, silent.
She glanced back at the draft. Neither of them thought it would happen-
“I’m of age now. There’s nothing I can do,” he said. “It’s just- why not someone who actually wants to go and fight this war? Why not take one of the rednecks drunk on nationalism and let them kill communists in ‘nam? Why not Nixon? Why me?”
Eva didn’t answer those questions. Neither of them could. Brendan’s not a soldier , she thought, he feels and thinks too much to be .
With that thought, their hearts shattered into a million tiny pieces. Brendan would be worn down, molded into a machine man who killed and died without ceasing, over and over, and Eva would be on the other side of the world. It was their sorry fate, and there was nothing either of them could do about it. They couldn’t change the forces that bound them away.
Brendan kissed Eva good night, and walked, solitary, bound for home, bearing the weight of the stars.