Sunday, March 17, 2013

What it is

I brought him to a pizza place to break up with him.

He loved pizza. It didn't love him back, and neither did I, but I guess one-way love is better than no-way love.

I watched him dig into his pie. He was a big eater, and had ordered a pie all for himself. It was covered with anchovies and onions and smelly things.

I had ordered a small side salad. I couldn't eat much. I always feel queasy when I have to deliver a blow.

"Mmm... mm rrowr rrowr rrowr rrowr, mmmphlet mphlet," he said and laughed.


He gave it another go. As he spoke, I looked into his churning, cheesy maw. Imagine a washing machine but full of melted cheese instead of socks and towels.

He wiped his lips with a thin cheap napkin. It left a greasy smear of a kiss-print.

"Sorry," he said, his left cheek full of chewed-up mush. "I had my mouth full."

"Oh, did you now?"

"Yeah. Heh."

"So what were you trying to say?"

"I said, 'I really love you.' "

I let my plastic spork drop to the table in our booth. He was grinning and clueless.

I saw his eyebrows go up a bit at their centers, awaiting my response.

In the kitchen in back, a cook twirled dough in the air. The cook was boisterous, singing about what it is when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie.

"That's amore!" he bellowed, spinning the dough round and round.

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