Picture Imperfect

After Evan left, Stacy wept. At first it was anger. Then grief. Then a deeper feeling, deeper than loss, deeper than rage. An undercurrent of emotion that threatened to pull her down, reminding her of what could have been, of what should have been.

She sat alone at the dining room table, staring at nothing while tears slid down her cheeks and collected on the polished wood beneath her folded arms. The house felt wrong without him. That realization only made her angrier.

Every time Evan entered her thoughts, a familiar warmth flooded her groin. A craving followed immediately afterward. Not overwhelming. Not uncontrollable. Just persistent. Like an itch. Like thirst. Like hunger. Only it wasn't food she wanted.

It was Evan.

The realization made her sick, and yet denying it didn't make it disappear.

She hated him. She hated what he'd done to her. She hated that he'd taken away the happiest version of herself she'd ever experienced. But she still wanted him nearby. Still wanted him home. Still wanted to hear his voice.

The contradiction was exhausting.

A fresh wave of tears blurred her vision. For several minutes she simply sat there, mourning. Not the future. Not even herself. What she mourned was happiness. Real happiness. The **** of real, true happiness. The kind she'd never experienced before the potion. Happier than childhood. Happier than her reckless years. Far happier than she'd been with David.

The comparison alone felt almost disloyal.

Yet there was no denying its truth. She had loved Evan with every fibre of her being. That version of Stacy could have awakened every morning content with her life. No doubts. No insecurities. No regrets. Just certainty. If someone had offered her a pill that could restore that feeling, she would've swallowed it without asking a single question.

Instead, Evan, the man she could have loved forever, had taken it all away. Because he'd thought he was helping. Because he'd cared enough to try. Because he'd been trying to protect her.

Big fucking hero.

Eventually the tears slowed, not because she was coming to terms with what she'd lost, but because her body was giving up. A headache had begun settling behind her eyes, placed there by a combination of tension and dehydration.

Water.

She needed water.

Slowly, Stacy rose from the table and made her way into the kitchen. The familiar room greeted her. Spotless counters where she had wiped them clean to impress her husband. Shining appliances that she had wiped down to make her husband happy. Her whole world had orbited him, and she could have made him happy, too. If he'd only let her.

Sunlight filtered through the windows as she brought a glass to her lips and began to drink. The room was just as she had left it. Well, as the previous version of Stacy had left it. She wished she had no memory of her time in that mindset. It would be easier to heal, to move on, without the knowledge of who she could have been, of what she could have had.

Draining the glass, her eyes lazily moved around the room. Maybe she would find comfort in routine, or in familiarity. Her heart was broken now, but if she distracted herself with the mundanity of the every day, maybe she could find relief.

Her gaze landed on the photographs on the wall, ones that the original potion had recreated to be of Stacy and Evan, not Stacy and David. Seeing his face in the pictures again brought on the heat in her privates, a tingling need, just enough to distract.

"Fucking asshole," she said, hating that she didn't love him anymore.

Then something caught her eye. One of the framed photographs appeared to shimmer.

She froze.

The image sat on the wall exactly where the engagement photo of her and David had previously hung. A professional studio portrait. Evan, now taking the place of his father, wearing a suit. Stacy in a modest blue dress. Both smiling. A perfectly normal picture for a perfectly abnormal situation.

The shimmering intensified.

Her stomach dropped.

The image shifted.

Gone was Evan's suit, replaced by a white t-shirt and blue jeans. Gone was Stacy's dress, replaced by a very revealing black lace bra and matching panties. No longer were they a loving couple standing side-by-side. Now Evan stood over her, his hand on her head as if she were a pet, and she on her knees, her face nuzzling into his groin.

"What the hell..." she whispered in horror.

A second photograph began to shimmer.

Evan and Stacy standing in front of the house, him holding a key, her a sign that says "SOLD". The previous Stacy's first day as a homeowner, taking possession of a home next to the man the new Stacy no longer loved.

The shimmering intensified. The image changed.

Gone was the house. Gone was the key.

In the bedroom the pair stood next to each other. Evan, his arm around Stacy in a possessive manner, a grin on his face. Stacy, however, had changed dramatically. Instead of the blouse and skirt she'd been wearing in the previous picture, she was now in a very revealing harem girl outfit. On the exposed part of her left breast, a sticker was affixed to her skin that said the word "SOLD". The look on her face was that of total contentment.

This was no couple's picture. This was a young man showing off his new purchase.

Two more pictures began to shimmer, but Stacy hardly noticed. She had already begun to back away, wanting as much distance between her and the offending images. Whatever this new potion had done, the magic was done messing around. It was making changes, and it was making them fast.

Panic seized her. She turned and hurried from the kitchen. The stairs disappeared beneath her feet in seconds.

Bedroom. She would be safe in the bedroom. She needed space. Privacy. A locked door. A room that still made sense.

The bedroom door slammed shut behind her. For a moment she leaned against it, breathing hard. Then she pushed herself upright. Immediately disaster struck. When she had leaned back, both her shirt and her pants had become stuck, trapped in the door. When she moved away, fabric caught.

A loud ripping sound echoed through the room. She turned to free herself, only to have both items of clothing torn from her body, leaving her standing in her bra and panties.

"Oh, come on!"

Turning to look at the door, she saw her top and tights hanging, suspended by the pressure of the door in the jamb. She shook her head, amazed at what had just happened. Was this a coincidence? Or was this once again the potion.

She would be willing to put money on the latter.

Another step backward, and her foot caught the corner of the bed, causing her to stumble. Her balance gone, her arms flailing, Stacy found herself staggering, reeling backward. The next thing she knew, she crashed directly into the open closet. An avalanche of clothing instantly buried her. Piles of clothes, skirts, blouses, dresses, all came tumbling down at once.

"Are you kidding me?!" she shouted as she struggled to free herself.

Several frustrating minutes passed beneath a mountain of clothing, all of which had somehow wrapped around her, tangling her in an improbably woven net. By the time Stacy finally fought her way free, her hair was a mess and her patience was completely gone.

She pushed the last sweater aside and sat upright. Then froze.

She was no longer just wearing her bra and panties. In fact, she was pretty sure that the bra and panties that had adorned her body before she fell had come off in her struggle beneath the clothes. Not that she was naked. Far from it.

On Stacy's body was a black leather corset with lace cups for her breasts, a black ruffled skirt, and a tiny white apron.

Stacy was dressed like a maid.

Of course, thanks to the potion's magic, it wasn't just any maid. It was a stripper's version of a French maid, a costume you'd pick up at the kind of costume shop that had opaque windows and asked for ID.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

It wasn't anything she would have owned in her previous life. The sex life she and David had enjoyed had been energetic, enthusiastic, but had never explored things like that. Not even remotely.

No, the origins of this costume were not in her previous relationship with David. If it was tied to anything, she was pretty sure it would be based on some disgusting fantasy by her perverted new husband.

She wanted to scream.

Or cry.

Possibly both.

Slowly, Stacy moved out of the closet and into the bedroom. The room seemed to tilt slightly. Nothing made sense anymore. Not the photographs. Not the clothing. Not the cravings. And not her relationship with Evan.

Especially not that.

The familiar ache surfaced the moment she thought about him.

Then she heard the front door downstairs open. Her entire body went rigid.

No.

He couldn't already be back. Could he?

"Stacy?"

Evan's voice drifted up from downstairs. Instantly the craving intensified. Not enough to erase her anger. Not enough to erase her resentment. Just enough to remind her that neither had solved the problem.

She remained silent. Maybe if she didn't answer, he'd go away. Maybe if she stayed hidden long enough, reality would fix itself.

"Stacy."

His voice came again. Closer this time.

"We need to talk."

Eyes squeezed shut. For one brief moment, Stacy considered pretending she wasn't home. Climb back under the mountain of clothing and hide.

Then she looked down at the ridiculous outfit she somehow found herself wearing. A humourless laugh escaped her. Anything she did, anything she tried, would probably just blow up in her face. The only thing that had worked so far had been giving in.

And Evan had taken that away from her.

And so she sat down on the bed and waited for Evan to come in.