Thursday, February 22, 2007

The Pizza Sneezed

Created from a prompt for a writing exercise.

The pizza sneezed. Cheese flew across the table. Peppers bounced of the plate. Greasy pepperoni plastered to my wine glass.

All movement ceased. No more the din of knives and forks on plates. The murmur of multiple over-lapping conversations silenced, like someone had flash-frozen the ocean. Even the violinist stopped. The renditions of much-loved Italian songs by strangled cats stopped clawing for attention among first dates, beer drinking contests, and family dinners.

For a moment, our eyes met across the topping-strewn table. He looked at me and I at him. In the silence we connected, we felt the complete understanding and inescapable bonding that can only happen when two people have witnessed the same impossible thing.

“Bless you,” he said.

There was a mumble of thanks.

Life resumed. Conversations restarted. Metal returned to ceramic. Children howled for ice cream.

It was when the violinist readied his bow that my partner met my eyes again.

“How does Chinese sound?” he asked.

“Chinese,” I said, “sounds great.”

Chicken balls had only ever clucked at us.

1 comment:

Rachel said...