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

We drove south down the highway under a gray, overcast sky.

The diner was quiet, with just two truck drivers sitting near the lunch counter and a jukebox playing low in the corner.

Clara’s cousin sat in a corner booth, laying a pair of brass reading glasses on his paper place mat.

“The municipal clerk charges a seventy-five-dollar cash fee for rushed property tax records,” he said.

I opened my leather purse and looked in the little bill pocket.

“I’ve got nineteen dollars in cash,” I said.