He pretends he hasn't been exiled from his wife for the last ten years. She pretends her husband hasn't been in a coma for the last seven.
They pretend they aren't two of the loneliest people in the world.
She laughs over her Starbucks frappaccino. He smiles over his diner black.
If their eyes linger too long on each other's hands, eyes, and mouths, neither admits it. If his hand brushes her shoulder when he helps her out of her chair, neither comments. If they dance too close, too slow, and too long and wish this world wasn't pretend...
Dance first. Think later. It's the natural order. So said Samuel Beckett, and no matter how appropriate, the words were an intrusion, perhaps because they struck too close to home.
Shut up, Samuel. Ah nevah asked your opinion.
But, girl, it's exactly what you've been doing.
Rogue tried to shrug it off and laid her head on Remy's shoulder. His hands tightened in response, and it felt so good. Dance first. Think later. They'd been dancing for weeks now, and there was a part of her that was starting to wonder if she ought to be thinking.
Of course, voices in her head aside, that wondering part of her had an external face and grumpy attitude, and his name was Logan.
Darlin', I understand you're hurting and you're lonely, but you're playing with a man as lonely as you are. And when two lonely people forget the reason why they are, bad things usually happen.
Bad things like adultery, divorce, being the very kind of bad girl her mother always warned her not to be.
"Y' doin' okay?" Remy asked her quietly.
She nodded, held on a little tighter.
So what if Ah want ta pretend Ah can keep him? So what?
Bobby had been in a coma for years from the unexpected return of her powers. Belladonna had not even seen Remy for longer. Who really cared if they were both married?
Rogue cared. Somewhere. Somewhere where she wasn't pretending.
"Just keep dancin', sugah," she whispered, like a sigh.
She was grateful that Remy said nothing, just pretended he believed her and held her close.