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home.”
    A moment passes while I stare at the phone, and finally it sings and
hums in my hand. The screen says: “Will do.”
    I take a water bottle from the pantry and fill it from the tap; our
water is drawn from a well and is rich in sink-staining iron. I can
taste it when I take a long sip. Glancing back at the pantry I
consider for just a moment how nice it would be to fill a glass with
some of our mineral-rich ice cubes followed by some decent whiskey
from the dusty bottle in the pantry I have stashed away for special
occasions, but I’ve set a (mostly enforced) rule that the only
alcohol consumption I do anymore is in the company of friends. This
occasion, a night alone, is not so special. Water will suffice for
now.
    I step through the dining room and past the sliding door to the back
deck. Insects still drone over the dry field, and now and again a
gust of wind whistles through the pines to move the long yellowed
grass in waves.
    A text message sound dings from inside the house, and inside I need
to wander around for a moment to find where I left the phone on the
bookshelf. I’m expecting another text from Christopher, but
instead I’m notified that a message awaits from ELL DEE, my
shorthand for Lauren Downey. Slide to unlock. Tap to read.
    “Movie plans cancelled. Project shelf assembly is a go. Can we
call a meeting?”
    I dial Lauren’s number, and she’s quick to answer.
    “A meeting?” I ask. “Like a meeting meeting? Or a
meeting to assemble Ikea shelves sort of meeting.”
    “What would be your guess?” I can hear her smiling.
“Doesn’t matter what it’s for, really, let’s
call one. Do you want to grab something for us to eat?”
    “A meeting,” I say again. “I’ll be there in a
little bit.”

From: [email protected]
    To:[email protected]
    Sent: September 7, 5:50 pm
    Subject:Ikea
    _____________________________

    Something reminded me just recently
of the trip we took to Philadelphia the year Chris was in 6 th grade. Our son only wanted to see the Liberty Bell, and you only
wanted to see the first US Ikea store. I’m sure you remember
the little argument we had about that. I thought it was kind of
stupid to go in there, and you did not; we went back and forth, back
and forth, and finally I said fine, fine, we’ll go in the
store. We didn’t talk the whole time we were in there. Chris
bopped around from display to display, oblivious, and I clenched my
teeth and swore I would not be the one to give in to speaking first.
I don’t remember which one of us did.

    Of all the stupid things we could
have bickered about, right? Of all the regrets I could possibly carry
around, can you believe that one memory hurts as much as any of them?

    Anyway, there’s one of those
stores in Detroit now. I haven’t been there yet to buy anything
myself (I don’t know if I could bring myself to do so), but
these Swedish products keep making their way up to PM.

    -Neil

CHAPTER FOUR

    A meeting. This is our
shorthand; our shared private language. It defines for us
something I am not quite ready to say in a more formal voice. Lauren
would say it, she does say it, but in deference to my
reluctant self a code word is employed. The meeting is called, and
I’ll happily go.
    I find my canvas tool bag in the garage and check to make sure it has
at least some screwdrivers, pliers and wrenches, the sorts of things
I anticipate I’ll need for the assembly of prefab furniture.
The bag is tossed in on the passenger seat of my decade-old truck,
and I make one last trip into the house to grab the book I’ve
been reading, one of Murakami’s early ones (sent to me by my
brother Teddy; he and some of his friends started up a “dudes
only” book club last year and he keeps bugging me to
participate sometime via webcam).
    There are evenings like this, meetings like this. We get together
when we can. Two years, almost, of Lauren and me spending time in
each other’s company and saying nothing really about