For her it was just to prove, to herself and to the world, that she was alive and human enough to feel.
For him it was to replace her, Jeanne, to pretend that she had not left because of him, because of what he was and what she had been to him.
For both of them it was to escape, to pretend they were not who they were.
Every day, at the end of the day, they would meet up outside the main building, and then the charade would begin. He always went first.
"So, my dear, who do you want me to be tonight?" And each night his eyes would die just a bit more as he stared into hers, but he hid it, pretended everything was good, perfect, even though it was not.
"Tonight." She would pout up at him. "Tonight I should like you to be ..." and it would be somebody, anybody, a real person, or a character from a book, or a film. Sometimes she had to explain the character to him. She liked it best when that happened, because then he was more him. "Who do you want me to be." She would ask. Her eyes flashing.
"Tonight," he would look deep into her deep brown eyes, almost, but not quite to the bottom. "I would like you to be ..." sometimes it was a random woman from a film or television series, sometimes it was the girl that went with who he was playing, that night. Often, especially in the beginning, he would breathe 'Jeanne' and her heart would break just a little bit more. But she would smile on, pretend this was nothing to her, just as he pretended it meant nothing to him.
That night his answer was just two syllables, and with them he froze her heart, stopped it, and then set it off again on another rhythm, his rhythm, a happier rhythm. With those two syllables he set both of them free, brought them to life. Those two syllables were the bravest thing he ever did.
"Tonight." He said, his eyes so uncertain, so shy. "Tonight, please just be Ziva, my Ziva."