This is one of my pieces from the collection of 100 word stories written by members of the Macclesfield Writing Group and the Bridgend Writers of Bollington and published under the title of Dabbles with Drabbles. The anthology is rich with contributions from all the unusual suspects, all guilty, bless them.
He was the gardener in that almost happy marriage. She didn’t contribute that much.
And then, at some point, he suspected infidelity, a lover. Last Christmas eve, in his cups, his neighbour said she has a back door man.
So he watched, waited. Chose his moment. Used a heavy spade, minimized blood spray. Dug a decent size pit. Covered the body with topsoil mixed with peat-free compost and bone meal.
He said, let’s go to the nursery for some plants. She said no. She seemed depressed.
She stayed moody for years.
But for him, life was a bed of roses.