Mr Wilson Monologue

We were seated under the green dinning tent. “Will you have lime juice or lemon squash?” My husband of eleven years had asked us. We both responded, wanting a gimlet. The two men had continued on with their conversation as the mess boy started on the drinks.
About a half an hour ago, I had walked into the tent to see Francis waiting while sitting on the bed. I had spoken no word to him. He after left through the door of the tent leaving me alone in the space. After a few minutes I walked out of the tent myself, Francis was speaking to Mr. Wilson. As I sat, I quickly glanced at Wilson.
“He is a good lion, isn’t he?” Francis had said. I turned to look at him. I looked between both of the men. It was if I had never seen them before in my life. Like they were strangers.

Wilson was about middle height with sandy hair, a stubby mustache, a very red face and cold blue eyes with faint wrinkles at the corners that became more noticeable when he smiled. He smiled at me now and I looked away from his face at the way his shoulders sloped in the loose tunic he wore with the four big cartridges held in loops where the left breast pocket should have been, at his big brown hands, his old slacks, and his very dirty boots and back to his red face again. I had noticed where the sunburned part of his face stopped in a white line that marked the circle left by the hat he was wearing
“Well, here’s to the lion,” Wilson said. He smiled at me again. I didn’t smile back, I just turned my head to study