i went to the Little Caesar’s on 8th street last night where a sign on the glass saying that only five people could be inside the restaurant at one time was ignored by the eleven people inside the restaurant. we kept getting told by the young cashier–mustached in a thin teenage way, with acne-speckled cheeks and a full-moon’s coat of hair on his arms–to go outside and breathed o the glass like everyone else, facemasks moistening, you’d see that, after boxing pizzas, a different teenager would walk out of the kitchen calling a name in a tepid voice, not knowing who gets it, whereupon everybody from outside would sweep in and raid the place, “Is it mine? I think it’s mine!” only to be told that no, it’s for postmates, everybody get out.
anyway, Reader, what i wanted to tell you is that i got a large pepperoni pizza and took it home and after the two-slice roommate tax i ate the whole thing, every hot, puffed-up, greasy flaccid slice, and this morning, wriggling half-naked from my bed like some hideous nocturnal caveworm thrown to the light, i caught my bloated figure in the mirror beside my closet and thought, briefly, that this quarantine (albeit restorative!) might prove a threat to my health.
because the pizza was incredible and there’s nobody to stop me from getting another one tonight.