#149: Slice

Peter entered the flat with three pizza boxes. The soggy heat from the bottom box was a nice relief, and the smell that followed him was something he was really looking forward to.

This was his first weekend with the kids. He’d purposefully bought two single beds for his one bedroom place for this very reason. His plan was to sleep on the couch, but the moment they walked in, both Matilda and Rory protested. It was too small. And it was.

It had taken him all month to get used to the smallness of everything. Of being able to stand in the kitchen and reach all the cupboards and fridge. It was an old apartment, on the third floor of a 1950s red brick block.

Peter had promised the kids that he’d take them home once they’d eaten pizza, and possibly watched a movie. They rolled their eyes at the idea of sitting down together and watching anything, but agreed to dinner.

He placed the boxes on the small coffee table, flipping open the boxes. Steam rose from the three large pizzas.

Look at that, Peter said. He’d placed the right pizza in front of each of them. Both of them barely looked up from their screens. Rory was the first to take a slice from his box. Matilda watched him do so, waiting until the cheese dribbled down the side of his still boyish face.

She grabbed her slice and resumed swiping.

How have you been, he asked.

Neither of them responded.