Dark Confessions of A Divorcee

I call him up, at least once a week, sometimes even twice. I have him on speed dial.

He gets to my house quickly, sometimes in less than thirty minutes. I hear his car coming up the driveway, and I rush to the door, I don’t like to make him wait. Usually, it’s a Friday night, so I’ve already put on my pajamas, and I’m waiting for him in my bed when he gets there.

When he arrives, I fling open the door to see him standing there, always in the same cap and polo shirt and khakis, smiling at me. We’ve been doing this for years, and we still don’t know each other well, but neither of us seems to care very much.

And as soon as he gets there, he gives it to me, immediately. And I take it, I’m so hungry for it, it’s been a long, stressful week, and I want it so badly.

Sometimes he gives it to me on the porch, sometimes we go inside. It all depends on the weather.

We never talk much during our transaction, we don’t need to. I always pay in cash and I always tip him well, and I think he appreciates that.

Before he leaves, I smile and tell him I’ll probably be calling him again sometime soon, I tell him I can’t go without it for too long. He just smiles and shrugs and tells me it’s no problem. And then, suddenly, he’s gone.

And after he leaves, I stand there in the foyer and take a deep breath.

And I wrap my hands around the warm, flat cardboard box, smelling the hot pepperoni and cheese and crust and Italian sausage inside of it.

And then I yell down the hallway, “Hey, kids, pizza’s here. Let’s eat!”

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