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

“Eat your eggs before they go cold,” he said.

“I will, Bob,” I said.

“We’ll head out Friday at eight in the morning,” he said.

“Is that enough time for you to pack?”

“That’s more than enough time,” I said.

He kissed my forehead and went down to the kitchen, leaving the bedroom door standing wide open behind him.

By one that afternoon, Bob was out on the front porch with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows.

He spent forty minutes with an oil can and a socket wrench working out the squeak in the porch swing chain that had been driving me crazy since August.