V-E Day was a time for many things, but Harriet hadn't counted on bigamy being one of them.
"Young man," Harriet said, as severely as she could through the pounding in her head. "What is the meaning of this?"
She fished the very official looking certificate from the debris of her blouse and his uniform littering the remains of what had been a very fine dining room chair, and waved it beneath his nose. The man, who looked like a tank had rolled right over his boyish features, squinted at her and then down at the paper and back up again.
"At least we'll never forget our anniversary?" he suggested.
If it hadn't been for the brass band playing in her skull, Harriet would have lived down to her public reputation then and there. She stood up from the bed, grabbing a sheet and slapping at the man--she checked the paper--Mr. Nixon's attempts to help her up. Wrapping the fabric securely around her breasts, Harriet took stock of her surroundings.
"I am a married woman, you know" she said. "With a husband currently at the front."
"So'm I," Mr. Nixon muttered, burying his head in a pillow he'd extracted from beneath his hips.
Harriet's lips, always more rebellious than the rest of her, twitched. She surveyed the bed they'd, apparently, destroyed between the two of them, and though of course she felt a swell of guilt over-setting her sangfroid with every passing moment, a tiny portion of her psyche couldn't help but be impressed by the sheer extent of the damage they'd caused. Whatever they'd done to upset that end table into the armoire must have been quite exotic.
"We'll get a divorce," she said to the pale lump of her second husband.
He grumbled something, and won free of the bedclothes far enough to flap his hand at her over his shoulder. "Wh'ever you say, sweetie," he said.
Harriet sighed, and put her hand to her head. Time for a tonic, rather.