He watched her chest rise and fall as she slept, the thin sheets barely covering the translucent top of her pajamas. The soft curves of her cheeks remained him so much of Constance, but she was dead and he would never see her again.

Slowly he walked nearer to her bed and sat down beside her, from this close he could see all her features small, delicate and perfect. He was sure this was his dead wife. Hungrily he pulled down the covers to her ankles but she stirred sending him into perfect stillness until he was certain that she was still sleeping. Cautiously he continued in his pursuit, lifting her dress and tracing his hand up her legs toward the frilly pink underwear which waited him tauntingly. He had begun knitting his fingers on the elastic of her panties when she jolted awake, sending his hands fleeting from her skin like steam from a scolding kettle.

“Dad?”