“No. Not with me,” she retorted, gesturing sharply enough to slosh the Chardonnay. “Not that anybody has asked, but they’d get a little more argument if they tried to get me back in the Navy. The hell if I’m ever serving on another carrier.” She tossed her head to move an imaginary hair out of the way and waited for a response.

“Well, I guess I don’t know what to say,” he said softly.

She looked at him for a long moment. “You want to go back.” It was clearly an accusation. “You know, I’m going to have a hell of a time keeping up with both work and home if you’re gone!”

“Well…” The pause after that looked to go on forever.

“God, Mike, it’s been years! It’s not like you’re eighteen anymore.” With her mouth pursed into a frown, she looked like a little girl “saving up spit.”

“Honey,” he said, rubbing his chin and looking at the ceiling, “generals don’t recall you from civilian status, personally, to go run around in the boonies.” He dropped his eyes to meet hers and shook his head.

“Whatever it is, they’ll want me for my know-how, not my biceps. And sometimes, yeah, I wonder if being, maybe, by now, a company commander in the Eighty-Deuce wouldn’t be a little more… important, useful, I don’t know, something more than building a really boss web page for the country’s fourth largest bank!” He garnished the generous helping of fettuccine with a chicken breast in garlic and herbs and extended it to her.

She shook her head, understanding the argument intellectually, but still not happy. “Do you have to leave this evening?”

She took the plate and looked at it with the same suspicion as the wine. A little alcohol and complex carbohydrates to calm the hysterical wifey. Unfortunately she knew that was exactly how she was acting. He knew all about her knee-jerk reaction to the military and was trying to compensate. Trying hard.