The closest I get to saving your love letters in a perfumed box is favouriting your tweets and believing you see me when you write them.
“You’re as much use as a waterslide in the desert!”
“Oh, don’t start.”
“Well, you make me so angry!”
“Well….” (He grins.)
“It’s not funny.” (But she smiles.)
“Well…. In the desert….” (He grins again.)
“Stop it! I’m fluming – fuming….” (She tries not to laugh.)
(They kiss. They make up.)
We argued about words.
-Wear blue pants.
-Under my black trousers.
It was like a scene from a movie.
He shouted. She reflected back his anger. He wondered, incongruously, if anger was wave-form or particle. Waves overcame them.