Creative Writing: "Arguments"

You know the drill by now. Folktales (3pm every Sunday, LSRfm.com) gave me a song. I wrote to it. This week it was "Arguments" by Handmade Hands and here is the result. Incidentally, the story in the first paragraph is entirely true, given a touch of artistic license.
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When I was small, the biggest argument I ever had was over a backwards roll. I was six and my best friend, a budding gymnast, thought I was silly for not being able to do one. I remember the day clearly. We were playing in her back garden in the beating sun, barefooted and barelegged. The sprinklers were on and there had just been ice-cream. She was performing a series of perfect gymnastic manoeuvres, cartwheels and handstands and, of course, backwards rolls. I whooped and clapped like the perfect audience, in awe of my talented friend until she, flushed with her success, suggested I join in. I was less than keen. This was not my forte and I was scared of hurting myself. Undeterred and ignoring my protests, she gave me an almighty shove and my feet went up over my head and the world was turned upside down. I had, unwillingly, executed a perfect backwards roll, and I was not happy about it. Furious and teary with shock, I stomped off to find my Wellington boots, threatening to go home. It wasn’t until my friend, distraught that I was leaving, burst into tears too that everything was reconciled. We went back outside into the garden and began a new game, tears and trauma all forgotten.

Now I’m older, I often wish that all arguments could be solved so simply. But adults don’t care when you threaten to leave, and children are too carefree to hold grudges.

Life is circular these days, isn’t it? There’ll be something tedious little incident, something so unimportant and insignificant that we’ll wonder, later on, why we even noticed. But it’ll cause grinding nerves and grinding teeth and suddenly we’ll be red in the face and screaming blue murder. Every past wrong will be dredged up and wrung out over and over again. Every little thing that you do that infuriates me I will throw in your face with relish and you’ll delight in informing me of all the little things that I do that make your skin crawl.

I'm sure I’ve said these things before. Why aren’t you listening? Why aren’t you listening??

Listen to me!

And then you snap. And then I snap. And then there’s a resounding crack and this relationship is held together by splinters.

No one will speak now for a while now. We’re too busy listening to the harsh words still ringing in our ears. We’ll say later that we didn’t mean them, but we did, and we know we’ll say them all again and mean them just as much. Words don’t just cut, they pierce and burrow and crawl under your skin, burning and sniping and etching themselves on your memory for ever.

Soon, we’ll kiss and make up. Everything will be peaches and cream. Until the next time, that is, because we’re repeating ourselves, repeating ourselves. And, when the shouting begins once more, when we say those things we’ve said a million times over, I will sigh and wish I was six years old again when it was so easy to forgive and forget.