Pizza night

This was composition. Unity. Balance. Texture. Each topping in proportion.

He added one last sausage crumble with an almost theatrical flourish, then turned to put the leftover toppings behind him. He turned back just as quickly, plate still in hand.

“Fuck it,” he said mischeviously, sprinkling the remaining toppings over the pizza.

He moved the pie from stovetop to oven, then stood, hands to hips. A dusting of flour marked his black t-shirt: two fist-sized blotches above a crooked line; an impish smile across a lightly rounded stomach.

[ November 2016 ]