He makes an inadvertently belligerent comment. She takes offense. He defends himself. She counters harshly. He fires back. She says something overly potent. He gets hurt, starts to shout. She shouts back, hiding some guilt. He breaks a vase. She hides her face. He storms off. She goes in the opposite direction. He stares at the ceiling. She cries.
Every time they fight, it goes like that- along the lines. It's over silly, little, evasive things. It follows the same itinerary, and ends on the same note each and every time. In a few hours, he creeps into where she's fuming, and apologizes. She shakes her head and takes the blame, admitting she'd gone out of line. He beats himself up, tells her he messes everything up, says he doesn't, never has, and never will deserve her. She corrects him, refutes his claims, insists she caused it this time, that she'd overreacted- until they're practically fighting about their fight all over again.
They're fire and water. They're night and day. They're opposites, but they're two sides of the same coin, more similar than the tip of the iceberg lets out. That's why they scream, and that's why they shout. But, underlying all the cursing and the tears, there's a profound understanding and love; there is a penchant to comfort one another, to make one another happy, and to mend the seams that they cut each time. Luckily for them, no matter how big the hole they create, it's never too big of a tear that they don't have enough patches or thread, to sew their love back together again.