Sometimes you just know when a relationship is over. When you’ve done your dash, tried your hardest, drifted apart, grown adrift. Sasha knows this is true of him and Francis. They met three years ago at a record fair browsing through A-K. He was looking for early Elton John and she was after David Byrne, his post Talking Heads stuff which is not always commercially successful but generally pretty interesting. They bonded over Godley and Creme. There was a long time where they connected. They used to find each others’ quirks adorable, her double denim, his neckties, his always making the orange juice with ginger, her calling out the answers to the cryptic crossword. It was charming once, but now all that seemed to grate, and that morning Sasha knew it was time. He was wrestling with it in the shower and that was the problem. Francis had the most amazing shower he had ever stood under, shaved in, scrubbed beneath. The perfect pressure, the perfect temperature, and these fabulous tiles, dark ceramic, the colour of oyster shells with cuttlefish white grout between them. He loved staying over at Francis’s place so he could enjoy the thrum of the warm water on his eyelids, and since the drought broke, the guilty pleasure of the long shower. He had had a lot of girls but none of them had a shower like this. Sasha was resolved. All relationships can be salvaged with roses.


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