IF ONLY...

Because of a presumed indiscretion Jack and Jacqueline decided, in a scattered sort of way, to never speak to each other again. Sad really, considering the grand scheme. We have so little energy after a heavy day’s slog we should savour it, and yet with the little we have we tend to waste it on rather pointless things – arguments, and grudges, and sulking, and general childish rubbish. For Jack and Jacqueline there weren’t any real clear signs for their failure, there hardly ever are. People always look to the BIG THINGS that cause the trouble like affairs or drugs or being a wholesale knobhead but that only happens in a minority of cases. For a majority of people the fights start from nothing and kind of snowball from there until they’re these massive impenetrable fortresses of vitriolic bile. Built on nothing.

Jack didn’t like the way Jacqueline’s name was really just his name with extra bits added on, like it was gobbling up the ‘Jac’ part and shitting out ‘queline’. It made him feel like she was somehow better than him. Jacqueline didn’t like the way he was always spelling her name wrong – Jockqueline, Jillqueline, Johnqueline. She thought she was being mocked.
“I’m not mocking you,” said Jack, “I’m improving you.”
The English language can be twisted in such evil ways (just listen to any political party speech).
“I don’t need improvement. I’m perfect as I am.”
“Oh, so now you’re perfect.”
“As a snowflake.”
Jack hated snow.
“Snow is nature’s way of taking the piss.”
Jacqueline hated Jack’s cynicism.
“You’re nature’s way of taking the piss.”
(You see where this is heading).
“If you’re so perfect then how come your name is just an extension of mine?”
“How come your name is shrunken?”
“Mine’s not shrunken!”
“It is compared to mine.”
“Yes, because yours is fat. Like you.”
(Careful Jack).
“Well, at least I don’t have an eeny-weeny penis. Shrunken like your name.”
(Would a snowflake say that?)
“I hate you.”
“I hate you.”

Oh, how this evening could have been so very different.

If only they weren’t so caught up in themselves they could actually see the other person in front of them. If only they invested more time in melody and song and less time in trying to prove how right they both were. If only they could climb off their high horses (metaphorical, of course) and engage in some light repartee, obsessed more with the depth of possibility and human endeavour than with the silly names and labels we so like to hide behind. If only they could have used what little energy they have to love rather than loath. If only...