Mairead Small Staid at The New England Review:
Madame M. had been married to more than eighty men. They looked identical: had they ever gathered in the same place, she could have lined them up like paper dolls, holding hands, cut oh-so-carefully from a single folded sheet—but they never did. Instead, each replaced the last, as he had replaced the man before him, and he the man before him, and on and on until there had been one man, her husband, the real one, long since lost to the distant haze of memory. She could hardly recall his face—though, of course, the same face peered at her now, its mouth frowning, its eyes concerned. The same face, and yet she knew—she knew!—that it wasn’t his. Wasn’t him. He had been abducted, murdered, who knew.
Who knew? She did.
“If this person is my husband, he is more than unrecognizable, he is a completely transformed person,” Madame M. told the doctor—and why was this doctor bothering her?
more here.