His face, full of folds and fat, like a friendly badger's is on my shoulder. Behind those round spectacles and his short-sighted eyes, he needs to get really close to see what he's doing with that razor-blade. Really close. His metre-long paunch pushes my arm out of its hold and I have nowhere else to put it.

Maybe he used to smoke, or his lungs are going out, or his shirt's too tight, but I can hear his heavy breathing and it isn't the least bit healthy. It wheezes in and grunts out, wheezes in and grunts out. Right in my ear.

Wheeze in.

Grunt out.

Through the mirrors on the walls, I can see his assistant, a dear old lady, and she sits in the corner with her knees touching each other, her hands folded neatly over her lap and under a nice shawl. She's usually very quiet. She's very quiet today. Maybe it's the weather.

He's quiet today, except for his breathing.  Everybody's too quiet, and his breathing is too loud, and it's right in my ear.

Wheeze in.

Grunt out.

"And how are things over here?" I ask when he turns round to wipe the blade on a towel.

"Well, you know how it is," he says, talking at the mirror. "Everything's pretty much the same. We're all fighting to hold on in this wonderful country of ours. Doing what we can. The usual, really."

It had struck me once before that nothing really ever changes over here. The way I see it, it is Portugal's main virtue, and Portugal's main flaw.

----

(-Songs About Shaving)