Tragedy! I didn’t know what I had with pizza till it was gone

Our relationship began on a typical Tuesday afternoon. I remember, because I had my best friend, Rani, over, and it was Two For Tuesday at Domino’s. I phoned up and invited my pizza, along with another pizza for Rani, to double date.

Things didn’t get off to the best start. Rudely, my pizza arrived almost half an hour late, and by the time it did, I was ravenous.

“Get that cheesy grin off your face,” I snapped at it, irritably, “and there’s no need to be so cold.”

While Rani, who had tided herself over with a slice of toast earlier in the afternoon, slowly romanced each piece of pepperoni, I couldn’t bring myself to be quite as tender.

Ripping into each slice, teeth first, I barely remember the experience. It was angry. Frenzied.

It wasn’t until I reached the last slice that I remembered to enjoy it.

But by then, it was too late.

Suddenly, everything I’d been missing in my hangry haze was right there in front of me. The sauce oozing beneath greasy, melted cheese, the perfect combinations of toppings – it had made such an effort for me, and I hadn’t appreciated it at all.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered into the last bit of crust, “you deserved so much more.” And with that, it was gone.

It was a brief affair, but one that I will never forget. I’ve only just stopped sleeping with the box in my bed. It smelled so much like my pizza.

Next time I’m lucky enough to find the right pizza, I’ll know to enjoy every last bite.