You Keep Returning Every Shot and Then Wonder Why the Argument Never Ends

A small disagreement between two people should, in theory, have a fairly modest life.

He forgets to call, you bring it up, and he says he thought you were busy. You explain that this is not really the point, and so far nobody needs a racket.

Perfectly manageable.

But when a couple argues all the time, even the smallest disagreement can start resembling a tennis match. One remark lands, and somebody immediately feels obliged to send another one back.

“Well, you didn’t answer my message earlier.”

There.

The rally has begun.

Not ordinary tennis, either. This is relationship tennis, where absolutely every remark seems to require a return and balls may be retrieved from matches played several months ago.

The court is immaculate, naturally. White lines, clipped hedges, striped awnings. Two iced drinks are waiting politely beside the court, although at the rate things are going they may never be touched.

The original disagreement was about a phone call. Nobody remembers that now, because somewhere along the way somebody started keeping score.

Oh, We Are Keeping Score Now

At first, the rally is almost civilized. He makes a point, you send one back, and for a while it still resembles two people discussing something.

Then one of you adds a little spin and suddenly we are no longer having quite the same afternoon.

Maybe he says you always make a big deal out of things, which is quite a leap for someone who has just forgotten a phone call.

So naturally, you reach back and retrieve something useful.

“What about the dinner with your friends?”

Excellent return.

That dinner was months ago, but the ball was still perfectly good.

He counters with the evening you were late. You remind him why you were late. He objects to the explanation, and somewhere around here the disagreement quietly stops being about anything in particular and becomes a match.

The score appears surprisingly quickly.

You remember who apologized last time. He remembers who started the last argument. You know precisely how often you have let something go, while he has somehow kept an entirely different scorecard.

Neither scorecard matches.

Both are being defended with Wimbledon-level commitment.

Meanwhile, the iced drinks are beginning to sweat.

The Ball From Last Summer Has Reentered Play

Constant arguing develops a rather impressive reach.

Give a couple twenty minutes with “You said you would call,” and somehow they can end up discussing a vacation, his mother, your tone during an evening out, and something said beside a swimming pool so long ago that the pool itself may have been renovated since.

Old arguments have excellent athletic ability. Just when you were fairly sure one had disappeared over the fence months ago, it comes sailing back onto the court looking remarkably well rested.

No.

Apparently we are still playing with that one.

And because every shot seems to require a return, neither of you can quite let anything pass.

He says, “That’s not what happened.”

Backhand.

You say, “That is exactly what happened.”

Forehand.

He adds one detail.

You correct the detail.

He corrects your correction.

Madam, the ball is smoking.

From the stands, the whole thing begins to look rather different. Two people who presumably like each other are racing from one side of the court to the other, rescuing arguments that were practically begging to roll quietly into the hedge.

Nobody particularly wants this match anymore.

But the ball is still coming.

And it would seem terribly wasteful not to hit it.

Someone Eventually Has to Let It Bounce

By now, the match has reached that strange stage where winning one point feels enormously important, although nobody could explain what the prize is.

Say you finally prove that yes, he absolutely did say the thing you remember him saying.

Wonderful. Point to you—and all you have won is an annoyed man, an exhausted you, and a phone call nobody is even discussing anymore.

Still, there is something almost irresistible about that last return. The tiny correction. The final sentence. The one additional remark that will surely clear everything up if only you say it exactly the right way.

It never does. The ball just keeps coming back until eventually even the two of you are beginning to wonder how long this match is supposed to last.

Then, at some point, one of you does something almost unheard of.

You let it bounce.

Once.

Then again.

Nobody lunges for it. Nobody retrieves an incident from last summer. Nobody announces the current score.

The ball rolls harmlessly toward the hedge.

Well.

That was surprisingly uneventful.

The country club remains standing. Nothing terrible happens because one point goes unanswered. Even the umpire, who has had a very long afternoon, appears relieved.

And somewhere beside the court, two iced drinks are still waiting.

They may finally have a chance.