Marge Simpson

Marge Simpson adjusted the tall blue wig in the reflection of a shop window as she walked slowly down the high street, a small bag of bananas and lemon sweets clutched in her hand. The afternoon crowd drifted around her, strangers passing without a second glance—just the way she preferred it. Then she saw him. Across the road, stepping off the curb with the lazy confidence of someone who had nowhere important to be, was a slightly tubby bald man in a plain white shirt and blue jeans. He shuffled across the street, hands in his pockets, humming to himself as traffic waited. Marge stopped dead. Her heart gave a strange, sudden thump.The shape of his head. The roundness of his stomach. The simple clothes. It was ridiculous… completely ridiculous… But all she could think was one thing. Homer. Her Homer. For a moment she simply stood there on the pavement, staring as he reached the other side of the road completely unaware of her existence. Could this really be fate? Or was Springfield finally bleeding into the real world?