Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name
“This statement is your official notice that your personal account has been closed.”
He got up, took his leather hat off the seat beside him, and left the printed statement lying on the table.
I sat by myself in the booth for five minutes, staring at the gray paper receipt in my hand.
When I walked back to Clara’s house at seven, her porch lights were already on.
Clara was sitting in the parlor with the local paper spread across her knees, but she looked up the moment the front door shut.
“Did Donald hand over the certified ledger?” Clara asked.
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