October 2009, Cork City, northside
At about 7 in the morning, I awoke to the smoke alarm.
By the time I'd gotten downstairs in my underwear, it had stopped, but I opened the door to the kitchen/sitting room, just to see that everything was okay.
Dave was at the stove. The oven was open. The air was full of acrid smoke.
"Is everything okay?" I asked.
"Yeah, fine," he said.
That's good. I asked him if he would "open the fan above the cooker." He said yeah, but didn't do it. I wasn't sure he'd understood me. I asked him again. He said yeah, again. But could you do it, I asked.
He told me to go back to bed. I closed the door, calling him an asshole.
Of course, I couldn't sleep, so I got up to put on some music and write. I went down to make some tea.
He was outside the kitchen window, and asked me something in his cool, practiced voice. "You alright, bro?" I didn't say anything, but he pressed onward. I don't remember what he said. I accidently dropped my favorite glass on the tile floor, a thick pint-glass made for beer that I use for tea. Its rim shattered. I picked up the remainder, and said "get out of the way." I threw it against the wall outside.
"You threw that glass at me," he said.