Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name

He looked nothing like the man who’d pulled out of our driveway at six thirty sharp every evening for seven years.

“If you let the prosecutor file those civil transfer papers, the county’s going to make this a criminal case,” Bob said.

He reached into his jacket pocket and brought his hands out empty.

“They’ll take every last thing I’ve got, Penelope, and I’ll be looking at real prison time in Canton,” Bob said.

“You know I never meant to cost you any money.”

I opened my coat pocket, reached in, and pulled out his brass key ring.