Close Shave by Liz Breen

Pat wasn’t aware of a problem. Everything was fine as far as he was concerned. “Is there any need for this?” 


“I don’t understand. What have I done wrong?” 

“If you have to ask that question, then there’s a serious problem.” 

“Can you give me a clue?” 

Rosie folded her arms and made an angry expression. Her eyes went big and she stared at Pat. 

“Was it the present for your birthday? Only you said that all you wanted was an oven that could clean itself.” 

“No, it isn’t that, but now you mention it, a pyromaniac oven isn’t a gift.” “It’s Pyrolytic, and it cost four-hundred pounds.” 

“I don’t care if it cost a million pounds, it’s a rubbish gift.” 

Pat didn’t like Rosie’s body language. He knew what that look meant. 

“Are you angry with me because I cleaned out Susan’s gutters?” 

“No, I don’t care what you do to lazy Susan.” 

“I hope you do. That’s concerning.” 

Rosie opened the bathroom cabinet and took out the shaver. She began to walk slowly towards Pat. 

“Not one more step.” 

“Or what?” 

“Or, I’ll leg it and grow this beard even longer just to spite you.” 

“What a nasty thing to say.” 

“What a controlling thing to insist I shave it off.” 

“I hate that beard and you promised that by the time I got home from work, it’d be a distant memory.” 

“Well, I was watching a programme today, and it said that the kiss of death to any relationship is when you expect your partner to change into the version you want them to be.” 

“The kiss of death for this relationship will be if you insist on keeping that grubby, wiry, nest of bits of crisps, crumbs and decaying insects.” 

“I’ll get my suitcase.”

Published in Issue #16

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