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

“I’ll keep it in my glove box until tomorrow.”

He was out the kitchen door before I could reply.

Through the window I watched his red taillights back down the driveway and turn south onto the county road toward Westfall.

The kitchen clock on the wall ticked on past six thirty in the silent house.

I went over to the kitchen counter, where Bob had left his leather briefcase sitting beside the stove.

Next to his briefcase lay the white bank envelope holding the unsigned refinance agreement for the Oakridge bungalow.