Eventually, they’d always make up after their fights, have a romp in bed, return to calm, civility. He’d apologize profusely to her. His eyes wet and his kind voice sweet as candy, ricocheting like a windchime in her ear.
When they’d fight over the phone, he’d later send her apologetic texts with loads of emojis, shower her with compliments and show up to her doorstep with a bouquet of roses, endearingly jutting out his bottom lip. Then he’d take her to a fancy French restaurant and ply her with wine and delicacies. Afterward, they’d Uber to his house, retire for the evening and let their full stomachs weigh them down onto the bed.
In bed, they’d lay supine, on satin sheets, in a tacit silence, staring into each other’s eyes. Then they’d cavort under his heavy down feather blankets, before cuddling and kissing for hours. Everything would be bliss for at least a day or two-until his mood crashed again and the arguments resumed.