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Timing is Everything – A Flash Fiction Story
Bette hefted the last bag of compost into the back of her ten-year-old SUV. In the first year after He Who Shall Not Be Named had left her for that young tart, Bette had torn into the backyard and expanded the flower bed until there was very little grass remaining. The strenuous work of turning over and loosening the hard-packed clay, that the housing developer had hidden under a skinny layer of topsoil, had provided her with a legal way to beat something to a pulp. The calluses on her hands were proof that she’d enjoyed that part of the job.
Ignoring the ripe smell of both her purchase and herself from the hard work, the loyal weekly customer of Bell’s Garden Center hitched up her baggy gardening pants and made a mental note to add another new hole to her old leather belt to keep them up.
That was one thing she hadn’t expected when she had thrown herself into remaking the yard. She had hoped and prayed it would exhaust her enough that she could sleep at night. Let her dog-tired body demand sleep so her mind couldn’t spend hours reliving all the failures of her marriage. But to her surprise, she had also lost the thirty-five pounds she always said she would get to.
In the last few months, the deep-seated need to pound the soil into submission had finally faded. Perhaps that was because she now had the beautiful garden she’d always thought was only in magazines. Or maybe, she’d finally exorcised all her demons.
Either way, this would be her last trip to the garden center for a while. She was ready to be sociable again. She was starting with a trip into the city to see a play.
Bette was excited to wear the new form-fitting dress she’d splurged on and have a night out. She had avoided going downtown all this time for fear of running into him. The city had always been his playground.
Now, she was ready. She knew if he saw her in that dress, he would regret ever leaving her. Then she would have the satisfaction of dumping him.
But before she could shower and change, Bette needed to unload the bags of compost back home. She slammed the car’s back gate and slipped her work gloves into her back pocket. She ran her hands through her sweat-drenched hair and twisted it up off her neck into a disheveled knot.
With one hand flapping the damp t-shirt away from her sweat-soaked body, Bette rounded the car and almost stepped on a pair of men’s Italian loafers that appeared in front of her. She recognized that brand and style. Without raising her eyes, she inhaled the familiar woodsy scent over the rank smell of the compost.
She closed her eyes and shook her head. Why now?