pizza pie

He was eating a pizza. She was holding a pie.

“I made you a pie,” she said.

“I hate pie,” he said.

“But I made it for you.”

“But I hate pie.”

Silence spread over the late morning kitchen slow like cold syrup.

“But I made it for you,” she continued.

He looked up at her, the stiff cold pizza folding in his hands.

“And what shall I do with this pie that you have for made me? Eat it despite the fact that I don’t enjoy it?”

“But I wanted to make you something. This is the only thing I know how to make. I really wanted to make you something.”

“But I’ve never liked pie.”

“But it’s the only thing I know how to make.”

“Have you ever considered learning how to make other things? You’re bright. I bet you could learn to make anything. You could learn to make me a pizza. I love pizza. I mean, you made pie, that’s not easy. If you can make pie, you could definitely make pizza.”

“Pizza?”

“Yeah, pizza. You know, dough, sauce, cheese, toppings – I like sausage, and olives and mushrooms and, I mean, I like all kinds of toppings, all toppings really – and then you know, you bake it in an oven and then you slice it and then, well then I would eat it, I’d even slice it myself if you didn’t want to do that part.”

“Why don’t you like pie?”

He looked at the smiling crust he was holding in his hands. His breathing became visible in his chest. He turned the crust upside down.

“Don’t you even want to know what kind it is?” She said ignoring his frowning crust.

“Is it still a pie?”

“It’s a lemon meringue pie. Aunt Anita’s recipe, perfected over the years. It’s not easy to make meringue, most people I know don’t know the first thing about making meringue. But look at my meringue, I can make it look just like the picture in this book. I bet you've never seen meringue like this before.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“So eat it.”

“I don't like pie!”

"But I made it for you!"

"So you would want me to eat something I didn't enjoy simply because you made it for me? I mean hearing that said out loud, as a statement, does it make sense to you? You would have me eat something knowing I didn't like it, because you made it for me? I mean, what if I made you a hat, one of those floppy hats, the kind that hangs like a sadness on silly peoples heads, what if I made you one of those floppy hats, out of, out of, denim! No denim print, not actual denim but that fabric that has the look of denim to it, but not the quality. And what if I made this floppy faux denim hat and I, I puffy painted your name in rainbow colors along the side, only I misspelled your name and I made the hat a little too small for your head so it squeezed just enough to give you a headache about 30 minutes into wearing it? What if I made you a hat like that? And then, said I want you to wear this stupid looking hat that makes you look stupid when you wear it, and that is uncomfortable and mean, I want you to wear this hat because I made it for you - would you wear it?!"

A long pause hung quiet like the faint morning moon.

"Yes. Yes I would." She replied.

He didn't know what to say, and more than that, he didn't want to try and find something to say.

She looked at him, searching. And then after too much space, she said,

“I want you to like pie so much. Can’t you just like pie, for me? I made it for you.”

As he looked directly in her eyes, he shoved the last piece of pizza in his mouth, saucing his face, filling his cheeks. He got up, picked up the greasy box and left holding the empty cardboard.

She sat down with her fluffy white pie and ate while tears fell like acid, eating holes in the meringue. the truth was, she hated pie too, but it's all she knew how to make.