Simon had gone out past the north fence where a storm had rotted posts loose. you'd seen him load the spade and new timber into the back of the truck, jaw tight, muttering about coyotes finding a way in if he didn't fix it. he'd kissed the top of your head in that absent way he does, already half-thinking about the work, and told you he wouldn't be long.
the day felt harmless, warm enough to coax you into town for a few things. you wouldn't be long either.
the shop bell gave its tired little clang when you stepped inside, the store smelling of grain and sawdust, familiar in the way small towns are— same scuffed counter, same clerk half-distracted by the paper, same tired creak of the ceiling fan overhead. you kept your list short: eggs, flour, sugar if they had it. quick in, quick out.
but even five minutes was long enough.
you'd just lifted a sack of flour onto your hip when you felt the weight of someone behind you, close enough to stir the little hairs at your neck. a brush at your back. at first, you thought someone was passing through, the aisle too narrow— but then the hand lingered. the weight of it made your skin crawl.
"easy, sugar," the man slurred, voice thick with alcohol even this early. he leaned too close, his laugh not warm but oily, the kind that wanted to stick. "didn't mean to startle ya." you stepped back, clutching the bag of flour tighter, but he moved with you, his leer calling you something small.
the clerk shifted his weight but said nothing. a woman bagging seed glanced up, then down again, cheeks tight, as if she hadn't seen. that silence pressed heavier than the man's hand— the townsfolk choosing to look away because looking is work.
your pulse jumped hard enough to sting your throat, but you kept your eyes down, face away, muttering something— 'scuse me, sorry— as you slid past. his fingers grazed your hip when you brushed him, not an accident, not even pretending.
you hurried to the counter, set down the eggs too hard so one cracked in the carton. paid without looking up. the man's gaze followed you out the door, like wet wool. heavy. impossible to shake.
on the drive home, the flour pressed hard into your side, you told yourself Simon couldn't know. You told yourself you'd keep it quiet, that it would sit in your chest like a stone and eventually wear smooth.
by the time Simon got back from work, sweat streaked into the lines of his shirt, you were already home, sitting at the kitchen table with your hands folded into dough so tight your knuckles ached. he stopped in the doorway and watched you.
"what happened?" he asked, but it didn't really feel a question. his voice was flat, empty of curiosity. like he can see the answer written on you.
you shook your head. "nothing."
he doesn't push, doesn't press; lets you have your lie. Simon was a man who lived on instinct, and instinct already told him what he needed to know.
that night, you caught sight of him through the kitchen window, shoulders bent over the field at the far end of the property. the spade bit into the ground again and again, until a neat, dark mound of soil sat where there had been only grass. by morning it was tamped flat, smoothed like it had always been there.
you don't ask when Simon eventually tells you to keep away from that patch.
and the townsfolk notice things— the man who didn't come back to his usual stoop, the rumor that drifts around like smoke. but small towns have their ways: whispers turned into superstition, explanations dangled and then discarded. some will say he ran off with a woman in the next county; others will say he got himself killed in a card game. a few old-timers will glance at Simon but nod when he passes, respectful, not friendly. they don't pry.
(Price will shrug and call it necessary, and that's the end of it for the men who know how these things happen.)
