“Grab us another beer love.” I hear from across the small cramped living room of our flat, along with my boyfriend proving his current can is empty by tapping it in my direction.

I look up from the novel I was immersed in and take in the figure sprawled out lazily across the sofa, half hidden by the knitted patchwork blanket and several mismatched cushions.

He now strains his neck to look at me and repeats “Another beer love?”

I throw my book down, shoot him a look, stomp into the kitchen and yank the fridge door open causing a couple of holiday souvenir magnets to fall to the floor.

I stand for a few minutes staring at the combination of limp vegetables, half-eaten takeaways and assortment of alcohol crammed into the cool compact space. I’ve a good mind to throw it all down the sink, lazy git demanding I wait on him hand and foot. He didn’t even say please.

I grab a can and flip over a clean pint glass from the draining board. I pour the beer quickly not bothering to tilt the glass, smugly admiring the giant head of froth I’ve created. No doubt I’ll get a sarcastic comment about him wanting a flake in it.

The fridge light clicks off and the whirring of the motor brings me back into the room.  I slam the fridge door shut and take the fizzing glass of half beer half froth back to the demanding lump on the sofa.

Just as I enter the living room a cheer erupts from the speakers and a patchwork heap leaps from his cosy pit “3-0, we’re going to win this!” he exclaims as I hand over the drink which he takes without comment. “I was thinking,” he says, “I know you don’t like football so I thought I ‘d take you out for dinner tonight to make up for not being great company this afternoon.”

“Oh.” I answer, looking shame faced at the glass.

“Yeah, I booked a table at the new tapas restaurant in town, the one you mentioned last week. You said the menu looked good, what do you think?”

“OK, thank you, that would be nice.” I reply as I pick up with the frothy beer and return to the kitchen.

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