Cassada by James Salter

Everybody had been up, searching like foxes, eager to meet. Up and over they had rolled in dogfights, filled with excitement, the ground above their heads, smoke rising blue from the towns, heaven beneath their feet. They had fought the crazy Canucks. They had fought the other groups and squadrons, they had fought one another, landing and hurrying in afterwards to shout about triumphs.
    He stood complete and weary. He felt content. The last two contrails had straightened out. The Canadians were heading west again, going home to sneak in just before dark.

“Well, this is a surprise.”
    Outside the store, Godchaux turned.
    â€œOh, hello, Mrs. Dunning.”
    She shook her head slightly. “I thought I told you about that.”
    â€œMayann,” Godchaux managed to say.
    â€œWhat in the world are you doing here?”
    Godchaux gestured towards the interior which was tiled in white. “Buying mussels,” he said. “I told Jackie Grace I was coming down here and I’d get some for her.”
    Mayann Dunning made a face. “I’d rather eat pigs’ feet,” she said. “How do you cook them?”
    â€œGee, I don’t know. She’s going to cook them. I’m supposed to get three pounds. I was coming to Trier anyway, so I just . . .”
    â€œComing to Trier to do what?”
    â€œJust look around.”
    â€œLook around for what?”
    She had looked at him many times, in fact it was difficult not tolook at him, but she had never had the opportunity with no one around. His skin was smooth and clear, his eyebrows dark but fine. Feeling her stare, in defense he smiled. His teeth!
    â€œWhere’d you get your eyelashes?” she said.
    â€œI don’t know.” He gave an embarrassed shrug. “They just came.”
    â€œI’ll come in with you while you get the mussels.”
    â€œI was going to get them on the way back.”
    â€œYou don’t want me to come in with you.”
    â€œNo, it’d be fine. I was just not going to do it right now.”
    â€œWell, I’ll come with you while you’re doing whatever else you’re doing.”
    â€œJust walking around.”
    â€œJackie’s cooking dinner?” Mayann asked as they walked.
    â€œYes, ma’am. We’re all going over there.”
    â€œThat’s nice. She takes care of the bachelors in the flight.”
    â€œI guess she does.”
    â€œSews on your buttons.”
    â€œShe doesn’t do that.”
    â€œWho does?”
    She liked talking to him. Perhaps she would never really talk to him, but it was pleasant trying.
    They walked on. Trier was an old town of dark red brick, a town dating back to Roman times. It was historically important but not particularly interesting. There were the remains of a large amphitheater somewhere—Mayann had gone with the wives’ club to see it—some Roman baths, and vineyards up in the hills.
    â€œI’m hungry,” Mayann said. “What time is it?”
    â€œAlmost twelve-thirty.”
    â€œDo you want some lunch.”
    In a restaurant with windows of brownish glass in rows of small circles, Godchaux ordered a beer.
    â€œDo you like the local wine?” Mayann asked.
    â€œMoselle, you mean? I’ve tried it. It’s all right.”
    â€œThen you don’t like it?”
    â€œI guess I like the beer more.”
    â€œYou know what I always say. I always say you should have what you want.” She was opening the menu. “But only . . .”
    He waited, slightly nervous. He could not imagine what she was going to add.
    â€œOnly after you know what you want.”
    The waitress was nearby. Godchaux said to her, “I’ll have the wine.”
    â€œMoselle?”
    â€œ Ja, Moselle. Another glass of Moselle.”
    It was yellowish when it came. He drank it without much enthusiasm but ended up having a second glass of it.
    â€œHave you ever played this?”