The shelf jutted out at a jaunty angle, a great gap yawning between it and the wall. Callum swung his hammer at the shelf again and again. His feet were splayed, and he was using as much of his body weight as he could employ.
“Get in you fucker, get in. Come on!” He bellowed.
Wood splintered off as his assault became increasingly frenzied. Lost in rage, he yelped guttural, primal yips as he hurled himself at the uncooperative object.
“Callum!”
The shout from the door caused him to pause his bombardment. He hadn’t heard Rebecca coming down the corridor.
“What on earth are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m putting up a shelf.”
“It seems like you’re murdering a piece of wood.”
“Look,” erupted Callum, “it doesn’t fit. I followed the instructions and it doesn’t fit. I measured, I drilled pilot holes but no deal.”
“So you thought a little brute force might help?”
“You want to have a go? Be my guest. Go on Becks, show me how it’s done.”
Callum crossed his arms. She knew this stance. Having been questioned, he would be determined to prove that she was interfering unnecessarily. His strategy would be to loom, emanating discontent until she conceded. She clambered over the tools and boxes on the floor towards the shelf.
They had gone to therapy for a while because these absurd arguments had begun to strain their relationship. Fundamentally, it was only projects around the house which caused such tempest. How stupid for a relationship to erode over DIY.
Reflecting on the therapist’s attempts to guide them towards better communication had given her an idea. Stillness, patience, a calm assessment of the situation. Easier said than done when Callum went full man-baby, by god, but allowing herself to be drawn into the storm wouldn’t help either.
Quiet delay was like a magic trick. She would carefully assess each scene of devastation, allowing him to fume in the background. It worked a charm. He frequently got so sick of her methodical checking that he surrendered, saying that they should let bygones be bygones and hire a contractor. She was constantly surprised that doing so little could have so large an effect.
She scrutinised what was left of the shelf. It was supposed to float against the wall, seeming to bear its burden of books without support. In its current state, two metal bars protruded from the back and into the wall. They were bent. It was unclear whether the bars had come packaged that way or been rendered askew by the application of Callum’s hammer. There was no point in asking.
As she reached for the instructions, he said, “You’re doing the thing, aren’t you?”
“What thing?” She replied.
“That thing where you move slowly and ignore me till I say we should let bygones be bygones.”
There was a stunned silence. Everything suddenly felt light and easy. They burst out laughing.
“Cal, maybe DIY isn’t for you,” she said. His face darkened.
“Just because I get frustrated with setbacks doesn’t mean I’m no good.”
She pointed at the chipped shelf. “You’re not great.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s artistic,” he replied.
She let it go. Whether he began on future projects destined to cause fights was a discussion for another time.