Cold pizza

The man had scraped together six dollars and thirty cents, just enough for a slice of pizza and a bit of dirty water. “This makes me a bit of a regular now, twice in three months,” he beamed at the television set in the corner. Cameras flashed. A Minister spat into a microphone. Everywhere was news, amusement and abuse. But he didn’t complain—it was, after all, warmth from the chill, and a place to anchor the constant light-headedness. He hugged the pizza to his chest as he walked to his table. Even though it was already cold, he savoured the first bite to the last.

His hunger temporarily satisfied, he felt another need stirring as he watched a woman walk in from the cold. He could toy with his elastic waist, wander along her neck, get lost in her hair. “It’s a date, isn’t it”, he said, nodding a smirk in her direction. But he saw the fear in her eyes instead. He was cultured too, he wanted to say. He went to see the opera many years ago, when the sun was high, things were good, and the cup aplenty. He gulped down his water, and wished for a greater truth, a simpler lie, or a more colourful sunrise.