The Dirt by John Wentworth Chapin

The coffin-sized pit in his basement wasn’t freshly dug. “If I was burying Cub Scouts, I wouldn’t have let you down here,” he joked, his voice thin. It was pretty logical, but I was too creeped out for logic. Six months together! I said, “The truth.” “The truth? You shouldn’t have come down here, you shouldn’t put me on the spot like this.” I backed away toward the stairs, gripping the railing behind me, waiting for him to grab an axe; instead, I saw self-righteousness melt into tears. “You think I’d hurt you? I’m the same person,” he blubbered. “You loved me five minutes ago.” I didn’t answer. “I dug it four years ago, the day I found out I was positive.” He waited for me to speak, like this was some answer. “I laid down in it. Pretended I was dead. It… it was good.” “You’re not going to die,” I reminded him. “Not now.” “Duh,” he said. “You said you’d love me no matter what.” I let go of the railing. “It’s spooky! You could have told me.” “Tell you I think I should break up with you, just to spare you eventual doom?” He gasped for air and pulled away when I touched his neck. I climbed into the pit and beckoned, arms open. He wiped his eyes and breathed deeply, then climbed down. I put my arm around him and imagined our future as I held him in the dirt.

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