The Saturday morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, painting stripes across the polished granite countertop. I moved with a fluid, easy grace, pouring coffee for Dad, who was already engrossed in the morning paper. The soft fabric of Mary’s robe, a pale blue silk, swished around my (her) ankles, the weight of her breasts a familiar, comforting presence as I leaned over the counter. Every movement felt natural, ingrained, as if this body had always been mine. The familiar scent of her shampoo, a subtle floral note, clung to my (her) hair, a long cascade that swung over my (her) shoulder as I bent. Peter McKenzie was a distant, fuzzy photograph in a dusty album. Mary McKenzie was here, now, pouring coffee.
"Morning, hon," Dad grunted from behind the paper, not looking up.
"Morning, Dave," I replied, my voice a low, contented murmur, a perfect replica of Mom’s easy affection. I placed his mug beside him, catching a glimpse of her (my) hand, ringed with the wedding band, as I withdrew it. The gold felt cool, permanent.
I then prepared my own breakfast, a small bowl of yogurt and berries. As I spooned the fruit, I watched my (her) reflection in the toaster. The woman staring back was Mary – the gentle lines around her eyes, the familiar curve of her lips, the faint mole near her jaw. And then, a flicker. A memory of my old reflection, a gangly, unshaven teenage boy, superimposed over hers. The image was jarring, alien, like a glitch in the world. It vanished almost instantly, leaving only Mary.
Dad lowered the paper, taking a sip of coffee. "Anything interesting happening today?"
"Just the usual," I said, offering a small, serene smile. "Maybe a little gardening later. It's supposed to be a beautiful day." The words came out effortlessly, the very picture of suburban domesticity. But as I spoke, my gaze lingered on Dad.
This wasn't just my father anymore. Not in the way a son sees his dad – a figure of authority, sometimes intimidating, sometimes frustrating, but always distinctly Dad. Now, looking at him across the kitchen island, through Mary’s eyes, it was different. He was Dave. Her husband.
I noticed the subtle lines around his eyes that weren't from scowling, but from years of laughter. The way his hair, still thick, curled just a little at the nape of his neck. The broadness of his shoulders under his worn Saturday morning t-shirt. I saw him as Mary would: a man she knew intimately, loved deeply, with all his small habits and quiet comforts. This perception was no longer a forced act. It was simply how I saw him.
The memory of the previous night, of his hands on her (my) body, of the low, grateful sound he'd made, of her (my) body's shiver and arch, filled my senses. It wasn't a memory of my transgression as Peter; it was a memory of their intimacy, experienced firsthand. And a profound, disturbing warmth spread through my (her) chest. The forbidden eroticism wasn't just a separate urge; it was woven into the fabric of this new perception of him, an unsettling layer to the husband-wife relationship I was now inhabiting.
Just then, Mom, in my body, shuffled into the kitchen. Her eyes, my eyes, were drawn instantly to me, then to Dad, her face a stark contrast to my serene composure. She sat down at the table, clutching a glass of juice, her movements stiff and uncomfortable. She wasn't just watching; she was witnessing.
I caught her gaze, and for a fleeting, perverse moment, I held it. As I stirred my yogurt, my mind replayed the scene from the night before: Dad pulling me (her) close, the press of her breasts against his chest, the knock of her teeth against his. I felt the phantom brush of his beard stubble against my (her) cheek, the sensation of his hand circling her (my) nipple. All of it, vividly, terrifyingly real, experienced from within her own body.
He was so completely oblivious, so utterly innocent in this monstrous reality. And that innocence, his quiet trust, only amplified the deep, unsettling thrill. The taboo was no longer about the act itself, but about the profound, insidious deception, the complete absorption of one identity into another, allowing me to see and feel my own father as my mother's lover, to experience his tender, unwitting affection as his wife.
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