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

“Penelope, wait,” Bob said, crossing the braided rug to block the hallway door.

“We have to talk about this before you drive back to Oakridge,” he said.

“There’s nothing left to talk about in this house,” I said.

I walked past him out onto the wooden porch, where a light rain was starting to darken the top step.

Bob came running down the porch steps after me in his socks, his leather dress shoes left behind at the front door.

“Don’t go doing anything stupid,” he said, catching up to my Buick door on the wet gravel.