In the end, the outcome would be the same. Sonja knew that very well, but continued on being the ‘other woman’. Feigning ignorance was easy enough.
The wall was thick, tall, barbed. Jon waved across the border, handkercheif in hand and looking just as sad as he had the year before. Sonja tapped the area above her heart, forbidden from waving back, but knowing that her day to escape would come soon enough.
Sonja stomped out her cigarette and looked out the tower’s window. The man beside her clasped her hand, warm flesh meeting cold metal. Neither of them smiled.
Everyone had their specialties, but she was the jack of all trades. Guns, knives, bombs, she could do it all, aided with a feminine smile to ease up the hard-to-gets. That could make her second in command any day now, and Ambrose wasn’t going to have any of that.
She was the best they’d seen, but some things had to change; that black hair had to get some color, long skirt cut a little shorter, and that choral voice had to get a bit more nasty. The blonde guitarist looked from the girl, to her app sheet, and back.
“Alright girly, you’re in.”
Most couples courted, danced in their finery and conversed politely in the company of the whole town. No, Sonja was far more content with stealing away into the house library with a wine glass of brandy, and Jon was more than willing to accompany her. Their tongues matched in sharpness and wit as they drank, cursing the parents that forbid them from life’s smaller, more intoxicating pleasures.