After a week, my wife, Anna, mentioned it over breakfast.
“Have you ever wondered what is inside those bags?”
I glanced toward the window. “Trash.”
“That is an impressive theory.”
“What else would be inside a trash bag?”
Anna carried her coffee over and stood beside me.
Across the street, Barbara had stopped halfway down her driveway. She set the bag down and pressed a hand to her chest.
“Look at her,” Anna said.
Barbara remained bent forward for several seconds before continuing.
“She looks tired,” I admitted.
“Is it? She has lost weight. She wears scarves indoors now. Last week, when I returned a letter that came to our house by mistake, she barely opened the door.”
Anna had noticed Barbara.
