Slim and tall with long raven black hair and high, firm breasts, even after two pregnancies she still moved with the grace of the dancer she was when they first met. She’d joined the club he worked at to improve her muscle tone. He was the best in the club at muscle management schemes so he got assigned to her, naturally. One thing led to another and here they were eight years later. Sometimes Mike wondered what kept her around. On the other hand it would take a crowbar to separate him from her. Or, at least, the hand of duty.

“Your agent called me at work,” she said, “he said you weren’t in.”

“Oh?” he said, noncommittally he hoped. His stomach had already started to churn. He pulled a bottle of domestic Chardonnay out of the refrigerator and began hunting for the corkscrew.

“He says he needs another rewrite, but Dunn may be interested.” She leaned back against the counter, watching him carefully. He was giving off all the wrong vibes.

“Oh. Good.”

“You’re home early,” she continued, crossing her arms. “What’s wrong? You should be excited.”

“Umm.” He bought time by wrenching out the cork and pouring her a glass of wine.

“What?” She looked at the Chardonnay suspiciously, as if wondering if it were poisoned. After six years of marriage there was not much he could get past her. She might not know exactly what was coming, but she could tell it was nasty.

“Uh. It’s not bad, really,” he said, taking a pull of his own beer. The mellow home-brewed concoction dropped to his stomach like lead and started doing dances with the butterflies. Sharon was really going to hit the roof.

“Oh, shit, just spit it out,” she snapped. “What, did you get fired?”

“No, no, I got called back up. Sort of.” He turned back to the stove, picking up the pot and dumping the al dente pasta into the colander.

“What? By the Army? You’ve been out, what? eight years?” The words were low but angry. They tried to never argue in front of the kids.