the pyromaniac

It is August, which in my mind should be the hottest month of the year.
But a couple nights ago it got down to 9 degrees celsius. Which is somewhere in the upper 40s F. Mark is visiting. Mark who lives in Arizona. He tells me the temperatures here are like his winter temperatures. And he has been spending the last couple nights swaddled in blankets and drinking tea to counteract the winterish elements that are August in Bucovina.
Mark is also a pyromaniac. When he was 12 and I was 11, he would shave off the ends of millions of matchsticks and use this combustible material to make blue and red fireworks rockets which we would shoot off on special occasions. The last couple nights, swaddled-in-blankets-brother has asked, can we make a fire in your soba? Its so cold. I want to make a fire.
So tonight, after a drizzly day at a monastery and a hike in the drippy forest we came back to my room and Mark lost his soba virginity.
And these are the words that came out of the pyromaniacs mouth after the fire had burned out on him once and the room's dampness was fighting the wood's catching fire.
"I have a lot of respect for you, heating like this all winter. It seems like you have to work really hard."
ha.
I have earned the pyromaniacs respect. Heating with my soba in the winter is worth it just for that.