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

I sat down on the wooden glider and set my mug on the side table while the bungalow stayed perfectly quiet behind me.

The blue mail van pulled up to the curb, and Arthur climbed out and came up the paved walk with the morning mail in his hand.

He’d carried the mail along Maple Street and Willow Lane for fourteen years.

“Morning, Penelope,” Arthur said, coming up the three porch steps.

“I’ve got a registered envelope from the county treasurer for you today.”

“Thanks, Arthur,” I said, reaching out for the mail.