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.
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
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.
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?"
"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.
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.