Pretending

Sometimes he likes to pretend.
Which is a silly thing to do, utterly foolish.
But sometimes he can't help it.

Sometimes, he watches her beautifully strange eyes flick to his, vivid against his own ordinary gaze, and he remembers the day he asked her to marry him. The way her slender arms laced around his neck as she kissed his cheek and whispered "Yes, a thousand times, yes," her warm breath tickling his ear as his heart flooded.

Sometimes he sees her smile, soft lips curving upwards in a gentle slope, and he remembers their wedding night, the night she loved him for the first time. The way he held her in his arms, how they slow-danced close together on a hotel balcony in the balmy, salt-kissed air and made love at the warmest edge of the ocean.

Sometimes he notices the way the sun shines on her hair, highlighting streaks of silvery light in her dark waves, and he remembers the picnic they had, the day she told him that he was going to be a father. The way she gently pressed his hand to her still-flat belly, suddenly teeming with life, and the way he couldn't remember what the sandwiches tasted like as he leaned across the checkered blanket and kissed the mother of his child.

Sometimes he catches a glimpse of her hands laced together, slim white fingers folded on top of one another, and he remembers the day that their son was born. The way she had smiled at him, even through the tears of lingering pain, squeezing his hand hard as the keening bundle of precious life was placed in her arms, and the way his own eyes misted as their tiny family became perfect, complete, whole.

Sometimes he finds her singing, feather-light voice murmuring words in a language only she knows, and he remembers the nights they sat up together, caring for the baby. The way she would hum a melody, and he would add quiet words to the song in her throat as they rocked their son to sleep, tiny keening fading away at the tender sound of their love.

Sometimes he glances after her delicate stride, lithe figure swaying slightly, and he remembers the scorching summer day they first took their son to the zoo. The way she had fitted her small hand into his larger one, balancing the toddler on her hip and laughing as he fed her bites of a melting ice cream cone from the snack stand, vanilla cream dotting the tip of her nose.

Sometimes he follows the gentle slope of her shoulders, curving gradually, framing her narrow body, and he remembers so many Christmas mornings with his beautiful family. The way he had wrapped her in an unbelievably soft blanket  and pulled her close to him on the couch, the way she burrowed blissfully against his side as they watched their son open his gifts in the flickering light of the fireplace.

Sometimes he hears her laugh, like the sound of bells or the tinkling of crystal, and he remembers the Saturdays spent lazing around the house, watching cartoons on the rug with their boy. The way she liked to lay on her stomach, feet kicked in the air behind her, giggling at the silliest things, and just the sound of her laugh was enough to coax a grin from him.

Sometimes he likes to pretend.
Which is a forbidden thing to do, twisted and wrong.
Because those memories aren't his.
The beautiful wife, the playful son.
They belong to someone else.
His best friend.

But sometimes he remembers these things, these memories that never happened. He holds them in his bleeding, breaking heart like they're the only thing keeping him alive, and some days they are.

Because sometimes, pretended memories are better than no memories at all.