Plot
It it still raining as he trudges back to the garden bed.
How like a movie, he thinks. He’d always assumed that writers put those sorts of clichés into films because they had no original ideas, or were trying to distract from holes in the story. But maybe they weren’t just tired tropes. Maybe it does always rain at times like these.
But no one would watch this movie. He sets his jaw and resumes digging.
The mud is going everywhere. Water seeps into his boots. He feels the wet splatters of dirt on his jeans, and pictures a scowl on her face for his muddy footprints on the carpet in the back room. But she doesn’t care anymore.
This damn rain. Everything is heavier in the rain...
He starts imagining an alternate Tuesday, where the clouds simply remained grey and sullen, instead of bursting into tears.
No. Focus. Hurry up. This is the Tuesday he has. And there’s no time to daydream; the rain is harder now. The soggy walls of the trench are slumping into the rainwater pooling at the bottom. He needs to hurry, and he needs to remember the measurements. He keeps digging.
She’d be insulted if he got the measurements wrong. He laughs out loud at the absurdity of the thought.
The job is finished. As he plants the spade in the dirt, and walks back towards the house, he vaguely recalls a line he read in a book once. Something about honest men not needing a good memory.
That would be nice, he thinks.
He glances back at the hole he has dug. If he’s calculated right, her body will fit in there perfectly.
