The Universe and You
an excerpt

"Oh god, it's on fire!"

I have to be hallucinating. Someone please tell me I am hallucinating, and Mary did not just yell that in the kitchen. Is that smoke? Please tell me I don't smell smoke. I can't be. Mary can't burn the place down; we signed the lease last month, for crying out loud.

Mmm. The other side of the pillow. Nice and cool and snuggly.

"Jesus Christ, someone call the fire department!"

I smell burnt toast. This really can't be good. Mary is out somewhere in the kitchen, screaming her head off, and when hauling myself out of bed seems inevitable, the smoke detector goes off.

Oh, just fucking great.

"Mary." Talking seems like an exercise in futility, especially when one has just woken up and their voice has the quality of an intoxicated parrot. The smoke alarm splutters after a moment, though, and goes out, and Mary is no longer shrieking about the kitchen being on fire. "Mary!" I try again, a little bit louder. There's only so long that she can go without hearing me, right? Even in my half-sentient, drunken parrot sort of state? "-MARY-."

"It's all good. I made you breakfast," she says, appearing in the door to my bedroom and holding out a plate of toast.

"Oh, god, that smells like ass." My response is less than thrilled, and I decide that maybe it wasn't the best thing to say. Mary, it turns out, is actually fairly receptive to criticism, much to my luck. She regards the plate of toast with a raised eyebrow.

"I think you're right," she responds after a long moment. I say nothing, just kind of grin a bit—I'm not really the most coherent person in the morning hours, but Mary doesn't seem to mind. I think she's learned to take more in stride than I have, and I'm the one that invited her to live with me.

Right now, though, she's still regarding the plate of toast like she expects it to start talking, or get up and do a dance for her. I wouldn't be surprised. Mary is not...the best of cooks. Is that a polite way to say it? Maybe. I'm not really sure how I can be gentle about that. Her cooking makes me look like Emeril. I can barely microwave ramen. The last cup I tried, I set on fire.

This brings us to our next point.

"Is the kitchen still intact?"

It takes a moment for Mary's brain to make the connection, and she lights up like a Christmas tree, her grin bright. "For the most part. I saved the coffeemaker."

"I hope the rest of our appliances went unscathed." God, what kind of college student am I? I've been awake for ten minutes, and even before the first cup of coffee, I can use words like "unscathed" in normal conversation. If this conversation (or any of our conversations) can be called "normal."

She shrugs. "The toaster may or may not have been a casualty of the breakfast warfare."

"Rest its soul."

"Says you."