There’s something wonderfully delectable about cold, leftover pizza. Emerging from warm covers to the sound of your stomach growling, and feeling the shock of cold air hit your chest as you stand.
No lights, no shoes; tip toeing to the kitchen as if you’re sneaking but you live alone, and quite frankly, no one gives a shit that you’re up at 2am. But reflex from years of doing the same thing as a child takes over, and you can’t help but feel like you’re doing something mischievous.
Your thumb presses against the top freezer handle while your remaining fingers pull on the fridge door handle just below, and another shock of cold, with accompanied light, hits you. Your left hand creeps between cardboard and finds a piece of pizza.
Cold, stiff, yet desirable all the same.
As you pull it away and close the fridge door, you turn and slide down, back against the cabinet, until you’re seated on a chilled tile floor.
That first bite is exactly what you wanted, but still a surprise to your tongue. Just after, you feel the warmth of a cat in your lap who has an undeniable love for the smell of garlic. But he doesn’t beg, and you can’t blame him, so you let him stay.
Moments like these – sitting in pitch black silence, cross-legged on your kitchen floor with cold pizza and a cat – this is what you work so hard for. This is a moment of true life.
It’s far from perfect, but my, how wonderful it is.