He was gently putting a wig on me \u2014 long, old-fashioned, faded by time. On my chest he laid a strange, yellowed dress. It looked at least forty years old. With trembling hands he smoothed the folds, as if dressing a doll.<\/p>\n
\u2014 What are you doing?! My God, you\u2019re insane! \u2014 I screamed, trying to get up. \u2014 Take that off me right now!<\/p>\n
He jerked back, shaking his head in fear, and stammered:<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\u2014 No! I\u2019m sorry\u2026 I\u2019m sorry\u2026 I didn\u2019t mean\u2026 I didn\u2019t want to frighten you! You\u2026 you look so much like Marta\u2026 my wife\u2026 She died twenty years ago. I\u2026 I miss her so much\u2026 Sometimes I think that if I wait long enough, if I arrange her dress properly, if I watch you breathe\u2026 she\u2019ll come back.<\/p>\n
He spoke while trembling all over, and in his eyes there was something that made my skin crawl \u2014 not malice, but complete emptiness, madness, loneliness.<\/p>\n
I stepped back toward the door, and only then did I notice an old photograph on the nightstand. In the picture was a young woman\u2026 and she really did look like me.<\/p>\n
\u2014 Please \u2014 he whispered, still sitting on the floor beside the bed. \u2014 Just let me watch. I won\u2019t touch you. I won\u2019t hurt you. Just watch.<\/p>\n
And then I understood: I was living with a man driven mad by his own grief.<\/p>\n