Masks Off

The twins slip out of the bedroom before the candle smoke settles. The scent of perfume and sweat hangs in the air, thick enough to taste. He lies there half‑awake, unsure if what just happened was dream, drink, or damnation. Every sound in the house now feels suspicious—the creak of the stairs, the rustle of fabric, a giggle quickly swallowed by silence.

He sits up, stares at the mask on the floor. It looks harmless there, a child’s prop. But it hums with memory. He tells himself it was his wife. It had to be. He repeats it until it almost sounds true.

Footsteps again.

She appears in the doorway, still wearing the same robe, the same scent, hair loose around her shoulders. Only her eyes are different—awake, knowing. She looks at the mask on the carpet, then at him, still flushed and shaken.

Her smile is small, practiced.

“Rough night?” she asks.

He tries to answer, but the words knot in his throat. She steps closer, fingers brushing the discarded satin ear, then lifts it to the light. Her gaze never leaves his.

“So…” she murmurs, voice low and even,

“which one was I?”

She lets the question hang there—half‑joke, half‑verdict—then turns out the light.