A dark caption.

If one were to walk into the kitchen at that moment, you would have seen a few things. You would have seen her walk over, ever the dutiful housewife, and get the roast out of the oven. She would have set it on the counter a moment to let it rest, then checked the sides, green beans and mash potatoes. She would have given the gravy a quick stir, checking to be sure that everything was well in order, then picked up the roast and set it on the table.

You would have noticed her clothes and her appearance. Her hair was done up with a stylish but not bold haircut, very much in vogue with the suburban middle-class. They would have seen her make-up, well-done but subtle, though it seemed that it's effects did not extend to her forehead, which prominently featured a long cut and staples, an unfortunate byproduct of an accident a week ago. They would have seen her clothes, pretty, conservative, feminine, everything wrinkle-free and laundered well, her stockings without a single run and her heels with a polish to them that only came from careful care.

All told, it would seem she was a model housewife, doting on her husband who had just gotten home and, smelling the roast was about walk into the kitchen.

And it would have been all a lie. In truth, his pretty wife Sarah was dead, though her husband was unaware of it. After all, she was there in the kitchen getting dinner ready, or so he thought. In reality what he saw was merely her body, her brain gone, tossed aside like waste. In her skull was the brain of Myron, a strange, weird man in his fifties, one who had been obsessed with strange and macabre things, things one might find in those deplorable comics and pulp magazines.

Things, for example, like brain transplants. He had been obsessed with it, wanting to perfect a machine that could do it. So for years he had worked, eventually perfecting such a device, and he knew who to try it out on.

She had been a neighbor of his and he envied the domesticity she and her husband seemed to enjoy. All it took was a request from her to borrow something, an act she had done a hundred times before, and he was able to put his plan in motion.

Now here he was, a week into his new life, pretending to be her, enjoying every little bit of it. He would be the wife her husband deserved, and while there was much more to it than that, these things did always start with a good meal!