“Dig the crowbar deeper and pull,” said Sean. “Put your back into it, you lazy skiver.”

The basement door to St. Anselm’s church hung heavy, two inches of ancient oak, an obstacle for 600 years. Liam glared at his brother, then braced himself and grunted as he yanked on the bar, once, twice, finally cracking the door open the third time. The antique wood exploded and Liam staggered back, crowbar striking concrete and ringing a 2:00 AM toll.

“Jesus, be careful, Liam. You’ll wake the dead.”

Read in its entirety

The biggest client meeting of the year started in an hour. The GPS gave me good news – 44 minutes travel time. I could stop for latte and a donut. I’d need caffeine and carbs to be brilliant. Down the street, a few rights and lefts, swooped wide on the curvy onramp, picked up speed.

Then stopped.

Ahead, four endless lanes of inert metal bricks, motionless, each with two red lights hanging from the back corners. Electric tomatoes, some blinking but most glowing steadily, dangling from acres of vines. The rows of red dots narrowed to a horizon in the infinite distance. Cars squatted still as stones, but time accelerated. The cartoon clock hands spun, mocking me: you will never break free. My wheels barely turned. They were one with the concrete.

The devil on my shoulder had an idea – the carpool lane to my left was almost empty. A free-flowing river of roadway called. If I slid over, who would know? My conscience? I dropped that off six miles ago. I signaled and checked my blind spot – safety first – and merged.

Then one more red light, flashing in my mirror, commanded me to pull over. At least now I have an excuse for being late.

“Oh my god,” the wife thought. “Somebody spilled red wine on the white silk sofa. I’d kill whoever did that.” A big crowd in a compact mansion on a swanky street, living room in shades of ice, the wine a burn scar on a snowbank.

She glanced at her husband, who was staring at the mahogany bookshelf, pretending to contemplate a volume on the post-war history of eastern European avant garde art, a subject he would have loathed had he ever heard of it. “Jerk.” she thought. “You’d think he could at least make an effort to socialize.”

“Why do I come to these stupid parties,” the husband thought.

A women approached the couple, weaving across the white carpet, three crackers with caviar in her left hand, a half-glass of pinot noir in her right.

“I don’t know this person,” the wife thought. “Crap,” the husband thought.

“Hi, I’m Joanne,” the woman said, too brightly. “Are you two together?”

“Nope, we’re unravelling,” said the husband. The wife ignored him, her smile tight. “Actually, we’ve been married for 36 years,” she said.

“Oh,” the woman said, “I’ve never been married. What’s the secret of being a happy couple for so long?”

They spoke simultaneously. The husband said, “Inertia.” “Scar tissue,” replied the wife.

The woman’s eyes widened. “Excuse me,” she said. “I see a book I’ve been just dying to read on…” She squinted at the bookshelf. “…Avant garde art.”

“We’ve really polished our act,” the wife said as the woman bustled away. “High five,” said the husband.