"They say the dead deserve respect, but does that mean the pain of the living has to be swallowed alone?
Jane, out of all the ways to die, why did you have to choose the one that humiliates us both?"
I picked up a glass of liquor, the fiery burn rolling down my throat to my stomach. It almost felt like it warmed my heart.
Through the haze, I smelled a familiar scent. The fragrance of her pajamas and body wash. It was... my wife's scent.
She helped me lie down, undressing me as her soft lips pressed against mine.
Feeling a long-lost excitement, I pulled her into my arms and rolled on top of her.
My hand slid up under her nightgown, roaming upward until I reached her waist. She trembled slightly and wrapped her arms around me.
She pressed closer, kissing me and teasing me.
"Jane, you finally came home."
This must be a dream. In dreams, there's no betrayal or arguments, just warmth.
My hand moved to her waist, searching for the familiar scar. Every time I was intimate with my wife, I liked to touch the scar from when she'd been burned by boiling water as a child.
No scar! She wasn't Jane!