He comes home early. Door’s locked.
Strange.
Calls for his wife from the hallway—no reply. Groceries? Not her usual time.
Upstairs, bedroom, he figures, taking a nap—not there either. A suspicious movement in the corner of his eye—the garden!
Huh? Naked? Dancing seductively? Why? Sinking feeling. A lover? In the garden? Bitch!
Rushing downstairs and out—no one else there.
Relief—confused relief.
“Hey hun,” she greets him. “Just trying to make the tomatoes turn red,” she explains, giggling.
He throws her a questioning glance.
Blushing, she coyly adds, “… and make the cucumbers grow.”
