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3
    Clem’s silver Mercedes sped out of downtown Minneapolis and along Interstate 62 towards Eden Prairie. He checked his watch. It was late and he hadn’t had a chance to call Tara. It had been a strange day and he was feeling drained. He flicked the hands-free button on the steering wheel and made a call. A voicemail picked up. Clem left a brief message.
    “I need to see you again. Thursday. Seven o’clock. Call me to confirm.” He hung up and glanced at the car’s clock. It was 10:34 p.m. He wanted to call his wife but didn’t want to wake her if she was sleeping. He kept driving.
    Back on Dunkirk Crescent, Tara got into bed and switched off the bedside lamp. She wasn’t going to wait up for Clem. She’d done that too many times before, though she knew she wouldn’t sleep either, worrying about where he might be. Tara leaned across the bed and turned the light back on. She grabbed a bottle of Tylenol PM from the bedside drawer.
    By the time Tara had woken from her silent slumber the following morning, the other side of the bed was still empty, though the ruffled sheets revealed that Clem had finally come home last night. Tara sleepily ambled downstairs and wandered into the kitchen wearing only a long t-shirt. Clem was fully dressed and standing, eating his breakfast cereal. His eyes fixed firmly on the morning’s emails popping up on his laptop in case one of them might have another inflammatory attachment that he would have to defuse.
    From Tara’s point of view, he was annoyingly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for someone who seemed to be burning the candle at both ends. Tara headed straight for the La Pavoni, yawning on the way.
    “I wish you’d call if you know you’ll be coming home that late. I was worried sick,” she mumbled.
    Clem kept reading, not bothering to look up. “I know. I’m sorry. We’re working on the first round of creative for Rebakor. Damn nightmare,” Clem answered, still engrossed in his emails.
    “Should’ve called,” she repeated. Tara wasn’t going to hide how ticked off she was as she put a mug under the espresso spout. She opened the fridge door and grabbed the milk, deliberately making as much noise as possible with her every action to show her annoyance. If it bothered Clem he didn’t show it.
    “Didn’t get a chance,” said Clem. “I was too distracted trying put out another fucking fire.” Clem hit the eject button on his laptop and a CD popped out. He carefully tucked it in a plain CD case and placed it next to his laptop. “Hey, d’you pick up my shirts yesterday?”
    Tara ignored the question and fired back with one of her own.
    “Did you get my message about dinner at McCormick’s with Lorraine and her new boyfriend for Friday night?”
    “Yeah, no way that can happen.”
    “Figured.”
    “It’s just too nuts with this first round of Rebakor creative coming up,” Clem explained. It was nothing more than Tara expected. Nonetheless she was still disappointed.
    “Clem, it’s a Friday night. We have no social life anymore.”
    “Sorry, honey. But you’ve got all day to have a social life. I’ve got this thing called a job, remember?” Clem snarked. Now Tara was really getting pissed. This was familiar ground and she was getting fed up with it. Clem shut down his computer and dumped his empty cereal bowl in the sink.
    “So how did you get that big red welt on your back?” Tara asked him, changing the subject and throwing a curve ball. Clem blinked. He looked at her for the first time that morning.
    “Welt? What are you talking about?” Clem looked puzzled. Tara calmly put the milk back in the fridge and closed the stainless steel door.
    “The one on your back. And there’s another one on your shoulder,” she said, more calmly this time, though very surprised Clem wasn’t aware of his injuries.
    “Didn’t know I had any,” Clem muttered as he bagged his laptop.
    “Seriously? How can you not know? They look painful.”
    “Oh, yeah. I got