Frank Hoxie turned the key in the lock of his modest suburban home, the familiar creak of the door doing little to ease the weariness in his bones. At sixty-one, the long day at the warehouse had left his back aching and his patience thin. He stepped inside, expecting the usual smell of whatever Roxanne had simmering on the stove and the sight of her puttering around in one of her sensible outfits.

Instead, the house was quiet. Too quiet.

There she sat on the sofa in the living room: Roxanne, full-figured and sixty-seven years young-no, fifty-seven, he reminded himself-her short, neatly styled hair catching the late afternoon light. She wore a soft pink long-sleeve blouse with a crisp white bowtie at the collar, the fabric tucked neatly into the high waistband of a white pleated skirt that fell well below her knees in wide, accordion folds. Pink flats rested on the carpet beneath her crossed ankles. She looked exactly as Roxanne always did when she wanted to look put-together.

But something was wrong.

Frank paused in the doorway, keys still in hand. Her posture was different-straighter, almost alert. Her hands rested calmly in her lap rather than fidgeting with a magazine or the remote. And her eyes… those eyes held none of the familiar blend of affection and quiet resentment he had grown used to over thirty-plus years of marriage. They were watching him with a stranger’s calm appraisal.

“Roxanne?” he said cautiously, setting his lunchbox down.

The woman on the sofa drew in a slow breath, as if steadying herself.

“My name is Chet,” she said. Her voice was Roxanne’s-warm, slightly husky from years of living-but the cadence was wrong. Younger. “I’m twenty-three years old. Or… I was.”

Frank stared. A nervous chuckle escaped him. “What kind of joke is this?”

“It’s not a joke, Frank.” She-Chet-uncrossed her ankles and sat forward a little. “Roxanne had enough. She told me she couldn’t do it anymore. The marriage, the life, all of it. We met through… well, she didn’t give me all the details, and I didn’t ask for everything. But we agreed. We swapped. It was mutual. She’s in my body now, living my life. I’m here. In hers.”

Frank lowered himself slowly into his old recliner, the one across from the sofa. His heart hammered against his ribs. This had to be some kind of breakdown. Early dementia. A prank. Anything but what he was hearing.

Chet continued, hands folded neatly in the pink lap of the skirt. “She only told me a few things about your life together. Enough so I wouldn’t walk in completely blind. I know where the plates are. I know you like your coffee strong. I know… some of the bigger fights. But that’s about it.”

Frank rubbed his face with both hands. “This is insane.”

“I know it sounds that way,” Chet said gently. “But it’s real. Roxanne wanted out. She’s gone, Frank. I’m here now.”

Silence stretched between them. Frank studied the woman sitting across from him-the familiar round face, the short hair, the conservative outfit Roxanne favored-and felt the world tilt.

Chet spoke again, voice steady. “I’ll stay married to you if you want. I’ll be Roxanne-your wife. I’ll keep the house, wear the clothes, do the things. I’d… prefer that, honestly. I like the idea of being someone’s wife. A real one. But if you don’t want that, I understand. You can ask for a divorce. I’ll get a lawyer and take what Roxanne would be entitled to-half the savings, alimony, the usual. I don’t want to do that, though. I really don’t. I’d rather try to make this work. But it’s your call. Completely.”

Frank stared at her-at him-at the person wearing his wife’s body like a borrowed suit that somehow fit perfectly. The white bowtie on the pink blouse rose and fell with calm, even breaths.

Chet offered a small, almost hopeful smile. “So… what do you want to do, Frank?”

---

Frank sat frozen in his recliner, staring at the woman across from him. A shaky laugh bubbled up from his chest.

“Okay, Roxanne. Very funny. You had me going there for a second. What’s this, some kind of early April Fools thing? Or did you start day-drinking?”

The woman in the pink blouse and white pleated skirt shook her head slowly, the white bowtie at her collar shifting with the motion.

“This isn’t a joke, Frank. I’m not Roxanne. My name is Chet. I’m twenty-three years old. Roxanne and I swapped bodies. It was mutual. She’s gone, and I’m here now. I’ll be Roxanne-your wife-for as long as you want to stay married. I’m serious.”

Frank’s smile faded. He searched her face for any sign of the familiar mischievous glint his wife sometimes got when she was pulling a prank. There was none.

He shot up from the recliner. “Where the hell is the real Roxanne? I need to talk to her right now.”

“I don’t know where she is,” Chet said calmly, still seated with her hands folded in her lap. “She didn’t tell me where she was going or what name she’s using now. She just said she was done.”

“Bullshit,” Frank snapped. “Give me Chet’s last name. Give me his address. I’ll find her myself.”

Chet shook his head. “I’m not telling you that. She asked me not to, and I agreed. It wouldn’t help anyway. She doesn’t want to be found.”

Frank’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. His face grew hot with frustration and rising anger. He had never hit a woman in his life, and even now, staring at the body of his wife of over thirty years, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The urge was there, raw and ugly, but he turned away instead, pacing a few steps.