At Basic, a gunship catches your eye. It swoops, your wife rounding toward the bed.
   
"Anyone home, recruit?"
   
When did she first take you to bed? The headboard drums voodoo on the wall. On the dresser, a framed photo falls onto its back. You huff wet words in her ear. Kate, Kate. She moans, moans, ahhhs. 
   
"Wake the fuck up, soldier."
   
The gunship glides into the path of the sun. When you can see again, you see your drill sergeant inches from your face. Don't explain that even rotors Katekatekate-ing bring her to mind. That you love her too much.
   
"Is your brain a fucking bag of shit?"


***


Kate, in bold print on the divorce papers. In your basement efficiency, home from tour #2, you and your empty aquarium which can't support fish. "Feel guilty, bitch," comes out. Then, "No, no," as you bite down hard on your forearm. You fall back into the couch. You say, "Kate, Kate, Kate," and can't see the Apache through the sand its rotors kick up. Bootprints like your own left in the dunes to lead you snaking. The haze splits open. A woman in hijab. Eyes, skin, no lower jaw. Blown clear off. You punch your head to stop it.

Breathe, the PsyD tells you every Tuesday and Thursday. "It's a sort of infatuation," he explains. "Just the mind fixating, doubling back."

You wish he would stop saying trigger.

.

Dan Malakoff is the author of a novella, STEEL CITY COLD. He has stories in The Baltimore Review, Pleiades and others. He lives in Pittsburgh.

"Loop-the-Loop" is a finalist for the Mythic Picnic Prize in Fiction.

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