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“I tried to commit suicide once.” X said to me as she balanced the cigarette between her delicate fingers. “Discussing habit.” She muttered to herself and then snuffed it out in the ashtray. She looked back up at me, a lock of blond hair fell in front of her eyes and she pushed it away. “It was after my fiancée died.” She said with a smile that was clearly laced with pain. “But that was decades ago.”

I wondered, “how did he die.” But didn’t want to upset her, so I kept quiet. After a few strained seconds, she continued as if she was answering my unasked question. “He wasn’t supposed to die, you know. He survived the war. The war that killed thousands of men, destroyed families and tore apart lives. He called me the day after the campaign had ended … but then all I know is … a few days later he was dead. Killed by his own troops. The military never released the details, all we know is he was killed by people on our side. Why? He had survived the war … only to …” She trailed off and then stopped. She took a deep sign and pushed her blond hair behind her ear. “But like I said, it was a long time ago.” I took a sip of coffee and nodded.

X was an amazing looking woman. She had the look of a fifties movie star. Her hair was a glamorous blond that fell gently on her shoulders in waves. Some how she didn’t seem to fit in this age, an anachronism. I reached over and touched her arm with the tips of my fingers and whispered, “I’m sorry.” The words felt small and meaningless, but I couldn’t think of anything better at the time.