There are nights where they leave at five for dinner and then go dancing at seven. At eight they go for a promenade under the moonlight, the stars twinkling on their ageless skin. By ten they're home, kissing in the doorway and stumbling up the stairs, collapsing on his bed where they will remain until the afternoon.
There are nights where they'll argue about the house, about the town, about how they even fell in love in the first place. By seven they aren't talking and have resided to opposite sides of the living room. By eight they are completely unaware of each other's existence, shunning each other like Mennonites. At ten, they are tired and decide to makeup for lost time all night long, collapsing on his bed where they will remain until the next afternoon.
And then there are days, lazy days, where they will just lounge around the house, drinking blood cocktails and enjoying each others company. At five he will recite her poems and sonnets from his favorite authors, more often than not men and women he personally knew at one point. By seven she has him roped into a corny board game that he never understands and will always lose at. By eight they're watching a corny horror movie, and they're yelling "don't go down there" and "he's right behind you" simultaneously and they steal glances at each other and bashfully look away like middle school children realizing that the opposite sex isn't so bad after all. And then, by ten, they will be in bed facing each other, holding a contest to see who tires themselves out first.
She always loses.