“I don’t want to argue either, but when are you *finally* going to fix that shelf?”
On Saturday morning, after breakfast, Laura started cleaning the flat. Meanwhile, Cyril planted himself on the kitchen sofa with his laptop—his only real job was to take the bins out later. For now, he was mindlessly scrolling through social media.
Then, out of nowhere, a photo popped up—his old uni mate, Chris, grinning like he’d won the lottery. The caption read: *”Finally! We’re in! Come celebrate our new place—come by, have a look, and try not to drool!”* Cyril clicked, and there it was: a beautifully renovated flat, all minimalist chic and Pinterest-worthy angles.
The flat had been Chris’s inheritance from his nan a year ago—a proper dump, untouched since the 70s, complete with Soviet-era furniture. Chris had wanted to sell it straight away—no money for renovations, and who had the time? But his wife, Olivia, put her foot down. *It’s in Camden. Prime location.* So, they spent their savings fixing it up—knocking down walls, turning the poky kitchen into a sprawling living space, picking out tasteful wallpaper and budget IKEA furniture. Now the place looked like something out of *Grand Designs*.
The comments section was pure gold—everyone either gushing with praise or seething with envy. Most assumed they’d hired a designer.
*”Nah, just did our research online,”* Chris insisted. *”Livvy handled the styling.”*
Cyril typed a polite *”Congrats!”* but privately, he was green. Him and Laura? Stuck in a cramped one-bed in Croydon, courtesy of his dad’s mate who’d buggered off to Australia but hadn’t quite given up ownership. No renovations allowed—just free rent for a newlywed couple. Not terrible, but hardly *House Beautiful*.
And *Olivia*. Cyril had fancied her back in uni. Chris lucked out—Livvy had an eye for style even then. The simplest jumper looked designer on her. Chris did the grunt work, sure, but the vision? All hers.
Cyril glanced around their own kitchen—beige, bland, suddenly pathetic. He grabbed his laptop, forgetting the golden rule: *Never disturb Laura mid-clean.*
There she was, stretching on tiptoe to dust a wobbly shelf—*his* long-neglected DIY project. The screws were clinging on for dear life. A stack of books sat abandoned on the floor.
He tried to sneak off. Too late.
*”You just standing there? Could’ve fixed this shelf by now,”* Laura said, blowing a stray hair out of her face.
*”Wanted to show you Chris’s place. Look what they’ve done!”* He faltered at her expression.
*”Lovely,”* she said drily. *”He writes they did it all themselves. Livvy ‘helped with ideas.’”*
*”Yeah.”*
*”Still not clicking, are you? I’ve asked you *how* many times to fix this shelf? The books have been gathering dust for a month. We’ve lived here a year, and *every* day something’s falling apart. Should I hire someone? Would that embarrass you? Or *only* if it’s for Olivia’s flat?”*
*”Here we go,”* Cyril sighed. *”Who even buys paper books anymore?”* He snapped the laptop shut and fled to the kitchen.
*”Wait.”* Laura followed. *”Every time that shelf comes up, you go deaf. I don’t complain about your *entire wardrobe* being CDs. Why collect them when Spotify exists? But *fine*—let’s swap. *You* put your CDs on the floor, and *I’ll* put my books in the wardrobe. Maybe *then* you’ll fix the shelf.”*
*”Or… we could buy a bookcase?”* Cyril offered weakly.
*”Or a *new flat*—one we actually own?”* Laura shot back.
*”Love, I don’t *want* to argue.”*
*”Neither do I. Just *fix the shelf*.”*
*”I’ll borrow Dad’s drill on Monday. Oh—wait, he’s at the cottage till Sunday. *Next* Monday, promise.”*
*”Sure. Heard that before.”*
—
Monday came. Cyril *forgot*.
Tuesday morning, Laura lingered over her toast.
*”Aren’t you going to work?”* Cyril asked.
*”Not yet. I booked a ‘HandyMan’ online. Since you *still* haven’t fetched the drill. Oh, and the bathroom lock’s broken. And the plant hook snapped.”*
*”I was *busy* yesterday.”*
*”You’re *always* busy. Strange, given you don’t haul crates for a living.”*
*”Why lock the bathroom? We’re the only ones here.”* (He *hadn’t* noticed the broken lock. Laura had ‘visited’ him in there often enough.)
*”Oh, *of course* you didn’t know. What if we have *guests*? Your mum fancies a shower? The HandyMan will fix it. *You* should be embarrassed.”*
*” *You* should be embarrassed, hiring a stranger when your *husband’s* right here—”*
The doorbell rang.
Laura opened it.
There stood Adonis. Six-foot-something, biceps like rugby balls, a grin straight off a toothpaste ad, and—most insulting—a drill slung over one shoulder.
*”HandyMan, yeah?”* he said, voice like melted chocolate.
Cyril’s jaw clenched. *”Wrong address.”* He moved to shut the door.
*”Yes, come in!”* Laura chirped, shooting Cyril a look. *”You’ll be late for work.”*
Cyril didn’t budge. Since when did Laura wear *lipstick* on a Tuesday?
*”She’s *my* wife,”* he blurted.
*”Lucky you,”* the HandyMan beamed, stepping inside.
Cyril slunk out, simmering. *All day.* He itched to call Laura but resisted. (Pathetic, but *pride*.)
Home by six, he inspected the flat. *Shelf? Fixed.* (Had *Muscle-Man* helped arrange the books? The mental image nearly gave him a stroke.)
Laura walked in. Cyril braced himself.
*”You’re home early,”* she said.
He pulled her close. *”I’ll learn to fix shelves. Promise.”*
*”And I’ll stop nagging.”*
Peace.
—
Three days later…
*”For *heaven’s* sake!”* Laura brandished a snapped mop in the bathroom.
Cyril rescued it before she could launch it. *”Perfect pair, aren’t we? You break things, I don’t fix them. I’ll buy a new one.”*
*”We’ll go together,”* she smiled.
—
Love pulls people together. But it doesn’t stop bickering over broken shelves, dodgy locks, or the fact that *some* people are inexplicably good at DIY. Fights happen. Some say they’re ‘fuel for the fire’—without them, make-up kisses wouldn’t taste as sweet. Others claim they’re the first crack in the foundation. Truth? It depends on the people. Love’s easy. *Listening* takes work.
