The following story is true.
The lovers met for their tryst in the dead of night. Their place of assignation was secluded and quiet. The only light was dim and far away, but it glowed upon the white walls with a pearl-like radiance.
"Oh, Elmer," Beulah sighed. "This is so wrong! I should be home with McTavish and the little ones, and you should be with Francine."
"The heart wants what it wants, Beulah," Elmer growled, pulling her closer. "Is it our fault that Fate led us to each other too late for honor? All we can do is follow our destiny, come what will."
I found them in the morning, their limbs entwined, their heads together for one final kiss. Was it a double murder, or was it a suicide pact? Or did my husband knock them from their web when he turned on the shower, he unaware of their invisible love nest, they too entranced with one another to see the doom ready to rush down on them in a sudden flood?
What price, obsessive love, Gentle Reader? What price, passion?