I trace the outline of his face, gliding my finger along his jaw. Feeling every dip and curve, every bit that is him.

My eyes are closed.

I don't need to see because every inch has been seared into me. I know this body better than I know my own. I've spent countless nights studying it, memorizing it.

Pleasing it.

The thought used to give me comfort—reminded me that I wasn't alone.

Now, I just feel shame.

How can someone so familiar be such a stranger to me?

My hand moves down, tracing the vein that runs along his neck. I feel his heart beating. Steady. Strong.

Then, his lips are on mine. Soft. Sweet.

But, it's all wrong.

I put more of myself into the kiss, push harder, deeper. I need to forget that this man is not the man I married.

That I'm not sleeping with my dead husband's twin brother.

It would be so easy if I could only shut off that part of my brain. The part that keeps reminding me that he is not a replacement.

Sometimes, I think he knows.

When we're making love, I think he can tell that I'm pretending. Pretending that he is his brother and that he didn't die. That our life together wasn't shattered in an instant. That his car never went off that bridge.

I don't know if it's too painful for him to face, or if he just doesn't care. Either way, he's never mentioned it. So neither do I.

Maybe, we're both pretenders.

After the funeral, he started coming around. At first, I thought he just felt bad. Didn't want me to be alone.

Then, he started doing things brother-in-laws don't do.

Showing up unannounced. Finding reasons to keep coming back.

Calling me after a night of drinking. Saying he just needed to hear my voice.

You have no idea, I wanted to say. Your voice... your brother's voice... knocks the wind right out of me.

I wanted to say it. But, I didn't.

I knew how it would sound. I knew what it was. Desperation. Longing. Grief.

Or maybe, something more.

Maybe, delusion.

Now, as his lips claim mine and his hands roam farther down, I open my eyes. The resemblance is uncanny.

Identical. What an odd word.

Are two things ever truly identical?

His hand moves between my thighs. If I'm not careful, I might call out the wrong name. Even though it's really the right name.

I let pleasure push reason to the back of my mind. The transition is easy, like slipping into a warm bath.

Maybe someday, I'll stop kissing strangers, pretending that it's him.

But, tonight is not that night.

THIS SHORT WAS WRITTEN FOR THE CHICKLIT FLASH FICTION CONTEST, PROMPT #21.