Sumerian Moon
an excerpt

When he sneaks up on her at the computer, she's looking at the Yahoo headlines. She says they are easier to take than all those hysterical pundits, spinners, anchor cupcakes and rugheads getting their nuts off. Truth is, she's an addict, Carol. She got off the prescription sleep aids. But she's addicted to the war.
They don't talk about it. But he can tell. She comes to bed after ostensibly working her eBay site, and he can tell when she's been dipping into the video feeds. She's restless. So he'll gather her into his arms, until she doesn't squirm.
Memories of Ahmed, flailing in his arms, reaching through the air as he restrains him...dust and cordite.
Shake it off, man, shake it off.
Carol. He finds her outside by the valet parking. The valet is off somewhere, his DVD player on pause. The movie is something with young guys in it. He doesn't recognize the actors. All actors under forty look the same to him. All that plastic surgury or whatever...water, diet, whatever makes them look the same, identical.
Carol's been weeping. Her eyes are red. It's a damned fine evening in the foothills. They don't have street lights out here, so you can make out the stars. No moon. A cool breeze. The city before them. He can see the airfield at Davis Monthan, and the airport.
And Carol looks fine, too. She got all dressed up, some slinky thing, low cut. The diamond earrings her husband gave her. The little army insignia, gold, between her breasts.
"Those---" She blows her nose. "I can't go back to that table."
"To hell with them," he says. "They're stupid. Inconsiderate." He doesn't put his arms around her. That's something private, not for out here. Something for home, where they can give into fear if they have to.
"They have no idea--"
"They listen to the news, Carol. They think they know everything. They won't get it until there's a draft and it's their kids."
"I hate them."
"Which?"
"Both sides."
"Yeah, I know."
The valet guy comes back and sees them. He asks, with all the discretion money can buy, "Can I retrieve your car, sir?"
Wayne hands the chit to him. "Let's go."
"You going to pay our bill."
"Let them do it, it's their war."
"Oh, Wayne."
"Wait in the car. "
He goes back in, to the tastefully Southwestern foyer with the sautillo tile and the red textured walls and the gas fire burning in the fireplace. He crosses back into the tastefully appointed dining room with the saguaro rib ceiling and the dead animals and Navajo rugs on the stucco walls, all clinking wine glasses and waiters and waitresses in suit and tie. The women in this place always look like they're in drag, like dykes from the twenties. He crosses to the table.
Henderson's wife sees him and asks, "Is Carol--"
"She's fine."
Henderson, a living mouthpiece for Fox News, gets to his feet. So does Martinez, the lawyer, and the liberal part of the argument.
When Wayne crossed to the table, he had every intention of making excuses, paying respects, paying the bill, getting the hell out of there. Attending to Carol, who waited in the car. He was going to be polite to Carol's friends...the wives. But when he looks at smug chickenhawk Henderson, he shifts to plan B. One improvises in the field.
He swings and connects with Henderson's jaw. Not a friendly tap, not even a solid stop your bull slap. A tooth cruncher. Henderson, who can't handle that any more than he can handle three martinis and keep his mouth shut, flails backwards--
--Ima, in her hijab, the veil falling away from her face, blood exploding from her chest, flailing backwards--
--crashes into the serving table behind him, expensive entrees flying through the air, wine glasses and their contents arcing through the air like blood ripped from bodies. Everyone freezes for a moment, a moment in time. Their reflexes are not as keen as his, as a Ranger's.
He takes advantage of that pause, drops the money on the table, has turned on his heel by the time Henderson's bitch of a wife screams.
Carol's in the car, waiting for him. Outside the pandemonium is no louder than the valet's DVD. He waves off the guy and throws him a ten.
He slips into the driver's seat, smiles at Carol, guns it, and takes off at fifty down the ramp.

"What did you do?"
"Nothing. Let's go for a drive. Where do you want to go?"
"Somewhere where I can see the stars."
He heads up the mountain to an outlook, one away from the city lights, and they get out.
Now she gets into his arms, wrapping her thin silk wrap around them both, like protection. She shakes, trembles, like a fit. She gets them. And he holds her, breathes with her, until she calms.
Up in the sky, there are meteors. They face east, toward the old mine. The Pleides are rising over toward New Mexico, and the first stars of Orion. "Haven't seen Orion in a while."
"We should take Billy out with the telescope."
"On a night like this without any moon."
She nods. She knows how he feels about the moon. Moon over Fallujah. Like a bad sitcom. She doesn't know the half of it, but she knows he hates a full moon. They joke about him being a lunatic. Even the crescent reminds them of the Middle East. But the moon goes all around the world, shines on all kinds of things. Someday maybe they'll make their peace with the moon. Someday.