Cayos in the Stream by Harry Turtledove

S O YOU FALL IN LOVE . All the good stories start that way. When you do it the first time, you think all the good stories end And they lived happily ever after. That is how the fairy tales go, right?
    Only this is not a fairy tale. This is life. You fall in love. You fall out of love. You fall in love again. You get bounced out of love. You fall in love one more time. You crash in flames, like a burning Sopwith Camel when the Red Baron prowls.
    You keep falling in love. That is life. Every time you do, you are sure it will be perfect. You laugh at fairy tales. After everything you saw in Italy during the last war, you cannot do anything else. Somewhere down deep, though, you must believe in them. Perfect. Happily ever after. You are sure. Every single goddamn time.
    You were sure with Martha, there in Madrid. Sure enough to dump Pauline. Sure enough to tie the knot again. Three-time loser now, they called you when you found out. Not me, you answered back. This one is for real. This one is forever.
    They come out with a lot of crap. Every once in a while, though, they know what they are talking about. Sure, you wanted to jump on Martha’s bones. That is a big part of what love is all about. You wanted to make the earth move for her. You wanted to see the earth move for her. She is not the most beautiful woman you ever set eyes on. She is not the most beautiful woman you ever slept with, either. But she is the most vital. The most alive. Odds on the smartest, too.
    Every single man she has ever been with wanted to be the one to make the earth move for her. Every single man wanted to be the one to make that clever face go slack with joy. Every single man before you failed. Martha knows she is catnip for the male of the species. She cannot very well not know. She likes men. She wants to make men happy. She gives them what they are after. Some of what they are after. She beds them, but she does not kindle.
    Not even for you, not matter what you try. Not even that whore’s trick from Milan before you got hurt will do it. You always thought that would make a statue scream. Maybe a statue. Not Martha.
    You work it out on the typewriter instead, there in the house on the Cuban coast. For Whom the Bell Tolls . Biggest bestseller you ever had. A movie, too. Even with two other wives to pay off, you will not burn through the money you bring in from this one.
    You dedicate it to Martha. Fair is fair. The feeling was real for as long as it lasted. What you feel now, more and more, is the grit in the gears. It always seems to be there. Love can make you forget it for a while. But love does not make it go away. Love never has, not with you. You begin to wonder whether love ever will. If that is not a sign of middle age coming on, damned if you know what would be.
    So once the book is done, once it is out, you get away from Finca Vigia, the house on the Cuban coast, when you can. Getting away is easier than fighting. Maybe not better, but easier. The friends you buy drinks for do not want to fight, except when they get very drunk. By that time, you are ready for a swing or two yourself.
    And if you pick up a black eye or some bruised ribs, so what? You are fine again in a few days. You are ready for another go. The fights with Martha are not like that. You wish you could pop her one. You even wish she would haul off and belt you. Then, by God, you would both know what was what.
    You claw each other with words instead. The wounds fester. They scar over, but they never quite heal up. Every time you are near each other, you feel the hurt. Even when you are not fighting, you both walk warily, talk warily. You never know when things will flare again.
    Mojitos and bar brawls look like heaven next to that.
    Then the Japs bomb Pearl Harbor. Hitler declares war on the USA. We are in another scrap with Germany. You saw more of the Germans in Italy than you ever wanted to. You saw them in Spain, too. Some of their work there was by proxy. It did not