She has no idea what he thinks about when he’s by himself, but she pretends she knows it all. She thinks he’s perfect and never has a problem transferring his clothes from the washer to the dryer. In reality, he only does his laundry once a month. He’s just better at lying. His lies are motivating and only slightly intimidating. They don’t make him wake up with tangled sheets ripping apart unread journal articles. They don’t force his decorative bed-pillows to threaten a teetering robot filled with everything that matters to crash down to the shiny floor.
Her lies are new and different.
Someone dropped a red glove on the sidewalk. He picks it up and sprints to return it. In a moment of clarity, she pretends she didn’t have to make up his name. The springtime snow outside distracts her; she forgets to buy a plane ticket to somewhere and instead makes eye contact with a crier pretending to do something on his iPhone. Something about intruding on a personal moment makes her nostalgic for something that never happened.
Tomorrow, she wonders if the snow will ever stick.