She was found with flowers in her hair often. Each color represented a mood. The red begonias were for a battle with passion. Pink primrose spoke of her softer side. California poppy was orange like a jumpsuit and she felt like a rebel with them behind her ears. He had a favorite: African daisy. She never told him what it meant when she wore them. He began believing they had no merit to her mood and she would braid them into her style just to please him.

During the weekends she would wake up before he would. Slither out from the sheets and become a ghost on her feet. Quiet to keep him from waking. She muted the television and kept it on the news. Making coffee, making breakfast, looking up to read the lips of the anchors. She said the news was very sad so she would make up different stories to tell him. Forty five minutes after she had left his side is when she would resurface. He was never startled by the little murmurs she told him. Her lips against his ear. Her smile pressing to his temple. Coffee mug in hand that she would set down at the bed side table.

He would come home smelling of salt water and grey clouds. Before he could even change she would beckon him to the couch with her girlish whine. Hiding behind a knitted blanket from her late grandmother that the dog wasn't allowed on. She kissed him till he admitted that he had cheated on their diet. Kissed him till she could rub some of the salt from his skin onto her own. Wanted nothing more than to make up for the hours spent apart. He would want a shower, she would want to join him. He never said no.

One year he had been so sick that the doctors were unsure if he would make it. They had no answers for her. She questioned them, begged them, refused to accept the percentage. They wanted to prepare her but she wasn't going to bother. So stubborn to deny the facts that they put in front of her. She cried so much that he would still smell like salt water in that hospital bed. Months of this made him mentally sick. He hated the sound that would well in her throat even when she was forcing a smile for his tired eyes. He would ask her to go home, to get some rest, and she would change the subject. The doctors were completely bewildered to how he recovered. She told them to fuck off for not believing in him while helping him into a wheelchair. They were both keen on leaving as soon as possible.

He could recall every single moment that they spent together. There wasn't a blur in his memory where she was concerned. The details were so vivid. From the way she sung to herself while cooking, usually the same three songs, to how she had the worst poker face but tried so hard to bluff. She hated cruel people but could be cruel herself when her temper flared. Their arguments could last minutes to days before they both relented to find themselves laughing at whatever they had been yelling about. She once slammed her finger in the door of her car and was more upset about having to cut the engagement ring off than the actual pain.

She told him that her name was Hayden.

This is the story of how he copes with her being dead.