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I had been working in refugee camps during the Bosnian War when we first met. Maybe it was the constant fear of attack, or the squalid surroundings we were in, or maybe, it was love. At the time I didn't want to believe it. Falling in love was something that hoped for a future or at least a chance. At the time I wasn't sure that one, or maybe both of us, had either. I was a twenty-year old American girl. He was a twenty-six Italian man. I had recently finished my semester abroad in Florence, he had spent the last three years of his life organizing, helping and living with refugees. Like everyone else in Croatia, he didn't trust the Americans. They hadn't come to help and had sent no aide. I was the first American most of the people had met. He didn't want to have to look after some stupid, spoiled American girls. But after just a few days he began to respect me. I worked hard and the kids loved me. I also was one of the few who would brave the black markets and when we got pulled over and the guards checked our IDs with guns pointed at our faces, I didn't cry. I don't know what I expected war to be like but I wasn't prepared for that summer. I had never seen so many soldiers, such squalid living conditions. I had never changed so many bandages of wounded men, had to argue and fight to buy lettuce because the currency had changed again, had never not been able to contact my family because the phones were down. I had never experienced a fleet of helicopters tearing open the sky, never seen a convoy heading to the front, complete with tanks and soldiers pointing their guns as they drove by. I had never before heard the constant thunder of bombs dropping just a mountain range away. I had never seen so many women who had been mercilessly raped, beaten and impregnated. I had never thrown a birthday party for a 16-year old boy who was sent off to fight the next day. I had never lived for a summer with volunteers and refugees that I could barely communicate with. The volunteer group I went with was called the IRC and was made up of Italian men and women, members of the Italian Communist Party, University students, ex-drug addicts and lost souls. About half could speak pretty good English, the other half not at all. I didn't know a word of Bosnian, Serbo-Croatian or Yugoslavian. I relied on body language to communicate day in and day out. It was isolating and terrifying. Marco pretended he couldn't speak English for the first week I was there.  I remembered the war torn desperation with which we had first made love. Clinging to each other on the beach behind the decrepit hotel, the breezes of summer blowing around us, allowing us to forget the backdrop of where we were. His kisses had been strong, stirring the life back into me. My temperature rose as his hands moved over every inch of my body.Clutching my waist and hips, his face nuzzled against my stomach. He took me right there on the sand, our lovemaking was hard and rough, a reflection of his pain from fighting. He thrust into me again and again, tearing me apart, taking me with all he had. I had dug my nails into him, giving him pieces of all the violence and destruction I had witnessed, allowing him to feel every shattered illusion of life I possessed.  We lay there on the beach, I held him as he began to sob in my arms. His body wracked and heaved against me, I smoothed his hair and kissed away his tears. He had never spoken to me about the front but I relived it through his body. When he was through I had led him inside and put him to bed, exhausted from experience.The letter had a phone number and I stared at the numbers. Numbers. Like on his uniform, like on each door of the camp, like the lines of small children waiting for me to feed them. It was amazing how much I had allowed myself to forget. But was that fair? It was over now, but hadn't they told us you may forgive but you may never forget? I picked up the phone and dialed, he was here in New York. A woman's voice answered. "Hello?" she answered, her accent was thick, her voice was timid. "Hello," I said, "Is Ivan there?" As she went to get him I couldn't help but wonder who she was. I knew he had sisters, I knew he had had a lover that had disappeared. I shook my head at the jealousy, after all, it had been one year, and that was another life. "Hello?" he answered. Strong and proud, the way I remembered him. "Ivan, it's me, Kim." "Kim," his voice faded for a moment, "Kim, may I come see you?" I agreed and invited him to come over to my place the next evening. I went to bed and dreamt, for the first time in a long time, of the war. In my dream Ivan and I were still in Croatia. It was summertime again, the air was hot and we were going swimming. Both of us stripped bare and plunged into the cool sea. Ivan swam ahead of me, his strong arms cutting through the clear water. He was going farther out and I happily tried to keep up.  Then the noise began.Helicopters. Tons of them. They swarmed over us like bees and I realized they were searching for Ivan. The sky darkened and they blew away the thick heat. I looked back to the water, but he was gone. "Ivan," I screamed. My voice rose to a shrill, "Ivan!" Suddenly I was being pulled under, farther and farther down until I was so far I could breathe. I opened my eyes and Ivan was there, holding me. He kissed me, his tongue like a minnow. His hand darted down and found my cunt. His fingers danced in and out of my hole, and over my clit. He went down, his tongue finding my hard nub, kissing me, licking me, as his fingers marched on and invaded. I began shaking; my legs quivered as his tongue made another attack. Soon I was coming, my body floated up with the waves, bobbing along through the blackened water. Then, the gunfire started. I woke up suddenly in a cold sweat. The next day I left work early, anticipating my reunion. I had stopped and bought a new dress, long, dark blue and silk. Ivan had only seen me in cut-off shorts and T-shirts. I wanted to show him that I was different, that my life had gone on. He arrived promptly at eight. He brought with him a bunch of roses and smiled shyly as I said thank you. He came in and sat down, I couldn't look into his eyes, I sat there, asking questions, staring at my hands, the floor, his hands, his shoes. I could feel him looking at me. His dark eyes bore into me as I told him about my life and he explained to me how he had ended up in New York. Suddenly he was kneeling in front of me, holding my face in his hands. I felt a tear slide down my cheek as my eyes met his. "Kim," he said, "I need to talk about it, and I need to talk about it with you. You were the closest thing I had, the one person who allowed me to forget and who let me live." Suddenly I was sobbing, hot tears streaming down my face, landing in the palms of his hands. He brought his lips to mine; he kissed me, as hard and as passionately as I had remembered. His hands moved over the smooth silk of my dress, lingering around my nipples. He reached behind me, unzipped the back and let the dress fall off of me. His mouth covered my shoulders, my chest, leaving burning marks on my bare flesh.  Once again I felt life's passion as he pulled me down to the floor. He pulled my dress all the way off, then my panties, I lay there naked, my pulse racing, my heart throbbing. He took each breast in his mouth, lightly biting my hard nipples. I grasped him tightly, allowing myself to travel backwards in time. His mouth found my soft mound, tongue circling over my hard clit. I wanted him. I needed him. I slid down beneath him, taking his hard cock in my mouth. I had to give. Lightly I licked around his head, then I took him in. I flicked the underside of his shaft and sucked until I heard him begin to moan.He tried to move away from me, to bring his mouth back to mine, but I wouldn't let him. I needed to be in control, and he had to let me. His cock grew harder and his legs began to tense. He pulled out of my mouth and thrust himself inside of me. I wrapped my legs around him and he fucked me as hard and as deep as he had all of those nights on the beach. I grabbed on to him, clutching flesh, biting his shoulder, wanting every part of my body engorged with him. He fucked me deeper and harder, his huge cock stretching my tight walls. I could feel the orgasm beginning, a ball of fire spreading through my stomach as the walls of my cunt clenched around him. The spasms ran through me and I could feel him, tensing above me, then letting go, releasing into me. We lay on the floor, entwined, for hours. He got up and smoothed down my hair. "Kim," he said softly, "I have to go." I nodded and began to dress. It was over and I knew it. We were alive, our orgasms had proved it, and that was all that mattered. As I walked him to the door he turned and gave me a kiss on the forehead. "I just had to know it was real," he said. I smiled at him. It was real, it was desperate, but it helped us survive, and that was what life was all about.
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