Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name
“Where’s Donald meeting us?” I asked.
“At the counter in the municipal building across the street,” Clara said.
The municipal lobby smelled of floor wax and old paper.
Donald sat at a little oak table by the back wall, his leather briefcase resting between his feet.
He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up before sliding a stack of photocopied index cards over to me.
“I pulled these out of our archive vault on my morning break,” Donald said, his voice hardly louder than a whisper.
The first card showed my joint account four-eight-two, with my real signature written seven years ago when Bob and I bought the bungalow.
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