Pizza. It used to be pizza. It was a little hard to believe that this desiccated disc, with some sort of rubber where the cheese used to be, was pizza.
It certainly had been, she reflected, a couple of days ago, freshly delivered and hot and melty, as it should be…. Now it was just gross. It was also the only near-edible thing in the fridge.
She weighed her options. It would be a couple of hours before the parents got home, presumably with food. Until then, she thought grimly, this was her only choice.
With as little hand-to-food contact as possible, she picked up the Tupperware container with the pizza in it, placed the objectionable food item on a plate and shoved the thing into the microwave.
Nothing ever stayed. Why couldn’t pizza be like….. like… her mind dug for a metaphor.
Peanut butter. Why couldn’t pizza be like peanut butter?
Peanut butter, she reasoned, never staled. It always tasted the same. You could depend on peanut butter. You could use peanut butter for anything – you could put it in a sandwich, or bake with it. You could put it in noodles and make fake pad thai. It had protein in it. Peanut butter was good for a plethora of things. Pizza was just pizza.
Peanut butter was constant. Peanut butter never disappointed. It was stoic, like the brave warrior of the pantry.
Maybe, she reckoned, she was giving peanut butter a little too much credit. But its reliability could not be denied.
She could, she thought, use a little more peanut butter in her life.
Brian, she reflected, was most definitely pizza.
Cute and smart and funny…. Seemingly perfect. At first, anyway. Until you noticed that his smile never seemed quite genuine. And you couldn’t help but notice the way that his eyes followed other girls around the room. The cute and smart wore off fast after that.
She shook her head, trying to get thoughts of him out of it. The cute and the smart definitely wore off after you caught him making out with some chick in the janitor’s closet.
No regrets, she thought, looking at the pizza rotating sadly on its plate in the microwave.
She was about to retrieve her dismal dinner from the microwave when the doorbell rang. Speak of the devil – she could see him through the beveled glass, shifting nervously from foot to foot on the front step.
Dammit. She might’ve been able to ignore it, but he knew she was home. Her car was in the driveway and her backpack was on the floor, visible through the glass.
She allowed herself ten more seconds, closing her eyes to compose herself and hoping her hair wasn’t a mess, before swinging the door open.
“What do you want, Brian?”
Her eyes followed the track of his Adam’s apple as it bobbed up and down.
“I wanted to apologize,” he said. “And explain.
“It’s ok,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. “You don’t have to.”
“It’s just…. What you saw… It wasn’t what it looked like.”
She looked him up and down. He was back to shiny, she saw. Still very cute, with the dimple that would appear in the corner of his mouth whenever he smiled. It didn’t matter.
“It wasn’t?” she quirked an eyebrow.
“Yeah… I… I’ve been having trouble with physics and… Marie, she volunteered to help me study, you know, because she’s a whiz at it… and we were just…. Studying,” he finished lamely. “It was a mistake.”
“Brian, it’s ok.”
She gave him a long look up and down.
A bright smile crossed his face, hopeful now.
“Yeah, it is,” she answered. “You’re just not what I’m looking for.”
“No,” she shook her head. “You’re not.”
She looked down at her feet for a moment, wriggling bare toes against the tile of the entryway before answering.
“You’re just pizza, Brian,” she said. “And I need peanut butter.”
“I’m pizza?” he asked. “But don’t you like pizza? Everyone likes pizza. Who doesn’t like pizza?”
She shook her head.
“Bye, Brian,” she said, closing the door and enjoying, more than a little bit, the stunned expression on his face.
(write for) 10 minutes * female character – under 18 * Pizza
(I don’t know why this thing got stuck on characters under 18 and pizza…)
Writing Prompt Courtesy of: