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

“Thanks, Penny,” he said, not lifting his eyes from his column of inventory figures.

“You could’ve just left it at the front register with young Billy.”

“I was going by Main Street anyway to return the library books,” I said.

A pink carbon receipt lay flat on his blotter beside his brass key ring.

The top copy was stamped eighty-five dollars for emergency plumbing elbows and pipe sealant.

The ship-to line was typed in dark ribbon ink: 412 Willow Lane, Westfall.

I reached over to touch the receipt.