Their imaginary life feels so mildly unhinged; the stories he invents are never outrageous, just silly. Comforting. Because it’s better than sulking, yes; because it passes the time, yes; but mostly because it feels like someone’s taking care of her—not physically, not like he’s feeding her and buying her clothes, but like he’s taking care of her brain, like he recognizes that part of her isn’t doing so well and he’s doing everything he can to tend to it.
