The Night I Crossed the Line with My Wife’s Double
Our bedroom. Mid-1970s. Dim lamp glow. Sheets rumpled from old habits. Sylviane stood there, Solange’s mirror image. Heart hammered like a jackhammer. She begged to take her place after the funeral. Tense weeks passed. Remorse gnawed. But tonight, no turning back. Desire burned hotter than guilt. Hands shook as I stepped close. Her eyes, same…