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

“I can bring it by your office at the store at three,” I said.

Bob’s brush stopped in the middle of a stroke along the white trim.

“You don’t need to drive all the way downtown over a five-minute piece of paper,” he said.

“I need groceries from the Main Street market anyway,” I said.

He stared at the painted frame for three seconds, then nodded and dipped his brush back into the can.

“Fine,” Bob said.