Bits and Pieces

The Kiss: The Story of the Nurse and the Sailor

Disclaimer: This is the story of the nurse and the sailor. Please look at the picture to the side, I'm sure you've seen it, but just so we're all on the same page.

I have done my research, but to this day, not much is known about the story of these two people. I thought I would write it.

This does include artistic liberties, but since none of these things can really be proven, who says they didn’t happen?

I did try to stick to their story as much as I could, as much as possible. This isn’t even a thousand words, so it’s a quicky.

Enjoy. :)

Luv ya all,

-Allleeexxx

 

The Kiss: The Story of the Nurse and the Sailor

 

“It’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.” I tell the older woman. She falls back into her sleep. I mark some things on her chart, then I tiptoe out of the room. I walk to the middle desk where I see Betty. She’s babbling to Dorothy, another nurse.

“Hi, Greta!” says Betty.

“What’s buzzin cousin?” I ask, putting Victoria’s sheet in her folder.

“Not muc-” Betty starts, but is cut off by Shirley- The head nurse of our floor- running into the room.

“It’s done!” she yells. “They've signed the treaty- We’ve beat Japan!” She cries. “We’ve won. President Truman has just announced it! We’ve beat them girls, we’ve done it. It won’t be long now, just you wait and see! Soon this whole war will be over.” I yell and embrace Betty, and she grabs my hand. Without telling Shirley- which we should have done- we run out the doors. We run out across seventh avenue, and I can see the people. Other nurses, workmen, even sailors- all rushing out to praise the Lord for this miracle. I keep running, my lungs burning. I lose Betty’s hand in the crowd. I don’t stop for a second. Only thoughts of victory run through my head.

I don’t know where I’m going. I see people kissing in the streets, something I’ve always found odd, but today, it’s comforting. I whip my head back to look at something, a bit of color that catches my eye. Then my body crashes into something. Or someone. His arms grip me, and his breathing is fast. We stare at each other for a second. I think people must sense the chemistry, because I see two men nearby, cameras’ at the ready.

“We’ve won.” I whisper.

And he kisses me.

His arm is contorted around my neck, and I almost fall back over again. My leg bends back a little, my toes’ barely touching the concrete. I hear the bulb’s flashing ,I grab onto my skirt to support myself.

And all this time we don’t stop kissing. I realize I don’t know this man’s name, but I feel as though I do. I feel as though I’m Juliet.

My back is arched, and he’s leaning over me, finally pulling away.We stand there for a moment, until he straightens himself out.

“Greta Friedman.” I shout over all the noise.

“George Mendonça.” He shouts back. “Pleasure.”

I nod. “You too.”

“Coffee at Rosie’s on 52nd tomorrow at eight p.m. You’ll be there?”

I nod again. We part, and I run to Betty, who is partaking in a similar activity to what I just experienced.

*

I met him for coffee. And I met him again, and again, and again. One day, I met him at the altar. Most people don’t know our story, and most people don’t need to. But the tale of George and I, the nurse and the sailor, will be one that will be told generations from now. And sometimes, after a particularly long day or a particularly grueling fight, I go back to the time we spent on 7th and Broadway, and I think about the next young couple that will experience our story.

Since it is said that history repeats itself.