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

I walked down the narrow wooden hallway and stepped into Bob’s office.

His green desk lamp was on, throwing a circle of bright yellow light over a pile of brown order receipts.

Right next to his brass key ring lay a small square envelope made of heavy silver paper.

A blue silk ribbon was tied around it in a tidy double bow.

I flipped the silver envelope over with the tip of my index finger.

A white card was tucked under the flap of the silver paper, written in dark black ink.