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They didn’t argue very often. At least, to them it didn’t seem like very often. To them, it seemed normal. They’d done it for years when they had just got so depressed, and so frustrated. Only now they were married they had a wider range of things to shout about.They never held it against each other. No matter how many harsh insults they thought of, no matter how many objects were thrown or doors slammed, or whiskeys drunk or phone calls ignored. In the end they never meant any of it.He’d slam the front door, narrowly missing the keys she’d thrown after him, muffling her cries about how he always ran away! And he’d stay out for and hour or so... maybe two if he went to Leo’s and woke him up needlessly so he could cry at him. (Leo was always supportive, no matter which spouse he was making hot chocolate for. He was used to the late night visits, and he could smile when he thought back on them – it was just so like those two.)And when he got back home, he’d pick the keys up and put them in between the lamp and the picture of the kids last summer holiday. He’d tiptoe through the dimly lit living room and into the kitchen.On the kettle would be a little green post it note saying I’m sorry x on it. He’d smile. (They both now had a growing collection of post it notes, tucked away in side draws and boxes. They kept each one, because each one was a reminder of how they always found their way back to each other.) He wrote me too with the fridge magnets.Evie was fast asleep, hugging bears and Barbie’s and a blanket. Lewis was also asleep, so he’d turn his night light off and carry on down the hall, after he’d kissed each of his children good night.He’d sit on the bed as lightly and silently as he could. She had always been a light sleeper. He didn’t want to wake her up. He’d dig under the bed until he found his battered old wooden box. He put the post it with the others – like a flip book of sorry’s next to French and Egyptian stamps, a snow globe, baby teeth, messy crayon drawings, an old ring and an equally old leaflet about spitfires. His whole life in an old box, tucked under the bed again until the next time he lost himself to the storm.Her dainty foot might be hanging limp from the bed, so he would kiss her ankle and tuck it back under the covers. Then she’d roll over in her sleep with an adorable little groan. He’d climb in next to her (after removing his shoes and socks – but he didn’t bother with the rest of his clothes, and so ended up sleeping in his trousers and favourite shirt.) he would kiss her shoulder as their bare feet met.After gently trailing a finger over her pretty face, he’d whisper;“I didn’t mean it sweetheart.”She’d slowly smile and he’d wince at having woken her.“I know.” She’d whisper back, opening her eyes to just meet his in the darkness. “Neither did I.”He’d nod, and absently play with her hand as it rested on the pillow. “You ok?”“Yes...are you?”“I've never felt better.”They’d smile and one another and she’d kiss his hand.Then they’d fall asleep next to each other, their fingers still entwined.