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

I lifted one of the yellow roses by the stem and felt a tiny thorn beside the leaf.

“Where’d you find yellow roses at six thirty in the morning?” I asked.

“The grocery on Main Street opens its flower counter at six,” he said.

“I wanted them sitting right here before you woke up.”

He smoothed the quilt over my knees and smiled the way he used to on those early anniversary mornings.

“We’re taking Friday through Sunday off,” Bob said.

“Three whole days at Niagara Falls, the way we kept promising ourselves we would.”