His Laugh

I sat on the floor dejectedly. We had had our first fight. And it was ugly. The kitchen was in disarray- pans where lying everywhere, two glasses lay broken, the shiny glass pieces glinting maliciously. A can of peas had spilled onto the floor. The refrigerator door was open and a box of ice had fallen down, spilling its contents everywhere. I simply sat, too angry, too tired to move. I just sat there, staring at the ice cubes.

The front door opened and shut. I didn’t get up. He was back. In the middle of the fight he had hurried out as though my mere presence revolted him. He walked in carrying a box of pizza- a peace offering. I smiled. He took a step towards me and before I could warn him he stepped on the half-melted I’ve ice and skid the length of the kitchen. The pizza box flew into the air and landed with a flop, the pizza and box at opposite ends.

My husband started laughing and my anger just faded away. It always did when I heard his laugh. It was infectious. And soon, I was laughing too.

Our fight was over even before the ice had melted completely.

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