The Dirty Truth: a story in 60 seconds

Some secrets are better left buried

The woman turned to her husband. “Jane called. She wants to know if we’ll meet them tomorrow night for dinner.”

“Dinner out? Again?” he asked, pouring himself some coffee.

She took the milk from the fridge and placed it on the counter. “I know, but Jane sounded so excited. Apparently, Gill got a promotion.”

Her husband grunted.

She threw up her hands. “So what do you want me to tell her?”

“I thought we would slow down on the eating out.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, touching his shoulder. “We’ll start you on your diet next week.”

He leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee. “Promise? I want to get back to a size 46 before Mexico.” 

“I promise,” she said, standing on her tip-toes and kissing him on the cheek. “Kale salads and tofu nuggets from now until the end of the month.”

“Okay. Fine. If you say so.”  He took another few sips of coffee and dumped the rest into a travel mug. “Alright, I’m off to work. See you tonight.”

She waved goodbye.

For the next twenty minutes, she sat comfortably at the kitchen table, finishing her coffee and basking in the rays of sunshine gushing through the row of bay windows. Today would be a great day to start the garden, she thought to herself. She’d been pushing it off for weeks now, but it was nearly mid-April, and if she broke ground too late, she’d miss the opportunity to plant her cauliflower, cabbage, and beloved escarole.

She quickly changed into her overalls and went out to the garage. She grabbed gloves and a small shovel and found a nice clearing in the backyard to start digging.

Forty minutes later, she had worked up a good sweat. The plot was about four feet wide and six inches deep. She was about to call it a day when she felt the tip of her shovel connect with something unusual. With a gloved hand, she cleared away the soil, reached into the hole, and lifted the thing out.

Pants.

She gave them a shake and rubbed off a bit more dirt.

Men’s pants, and they were covered in red, rusty blotches. Splatters. Violent splatters. It looked like—no, no, it couldn’t be. There must be an explanation.

Her heart started racing. She turned the garment around and checked the tag.

Size 46.