Ballyhooly Road, Cork City Ireland, October 2009
I awoke to the smoke alarm at about 7 in the morning. 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 if everything was okay.
Dave was at the stove. The oven was open. The air was full of 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 he 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 didn't stop. I don't remember what he said, only that it infuriated me.
Setting it down a little hard, and a bit sideways, I accidently dropped my favorite glass onto the tile floor a thick German pint-glass made for beer that I used for tea. Its rim shattered.
I picked up the remainder, and said "get out of the way." He did, pulling his head away from the open window. I threw the glass against the wall outside beyond him. It shattered pretty good.
"You threw that glass at me," he said. He spoke it like a boy, like he was going to use this incident or his narrative of it in vengeance. Of course, with no witnesses he could as easily have said anything.
He didn't speak to me for the month it took me to find another, better place to live.