Actually they looked nothing alike at all. His wife, he was sure, was by far the more attractive of the two, the other being no more to him than a rare idle curiosity, but for some reason, probably because they were the only two short, round, pale, middle-aged women with shoulder-length dark hair and glasses, their fellow parishioners were constantly mixing them up, congratulating them on each other's joys, and commiserating with them on each other's sorrows, to the point where his wife one day said "well you know, we are interchangeable."

But she said it in a voice that suggested more intrigue than annoyance and this, he strongly suspected, was because his wife, despite his high opinion of her, was of the completely understandable opinion that her counterpart had the far more attractive husband, as uncontrollably attracted as she was to tall, dark, and chiseled of which her husband, she was sorry to say, was merely tall.

The suggestion having been made he stood there, in the midst of the people of the congregation as they milled about him chatting and drinking coffee, looking from his wife to the other woman's husband picturing them making out in some dark recess of the church, their clothes askew, his wife straining upward on tiptoe marveling at the musculature of his chest even as she pressed against him and lost herself in his kiss, pictured her kneeling before him with his long dark cock in her mouth before he placed his hands on the back of her head, imagined her on their bed at home, taking her revenge for what she saw as his infidelities in that same bed, her legs around the other husband's back, her eyes open to see what she normally saw with her eyes closed as her own husband fucked her and she whimpered in delight at the fantasy, and now the reality in his own vision of her fantasy, of being fucked by the tall dark chiseled man.

"Perhaps you are," he answered, smiling, letting her know he could read her mind, for this was their little game of the last twenty years and he never tired of it.