Dominoes Pizza

Since I’ve been on my own as an adult, I’ve been seeing an off and on-again boyfriend named Dominoes Pizza.  He picks up every time I call, and he comes to me.  He brings me hot, satisfaction, that I can count on to consistently satiate me, momentarily.  We’ve never gotten to the point of marriage, but there are periods of my life when I have called on him regularly, perhaps the closest I’ve come, to experiencing a booty call.  One of my favorite combinations in life are cheese, red sauce, and pepperoni, and it’s even more gratifying when it comes to me with little effort on my part; all I had to do was make a call.  And then, as quickly as I can make him appear, I’m able to forget we even know each other when I pass him on the street; not an ounce of attraction or acknowledgement.  Until another night, when I am typically by myself, comes, and the fatigue is so strong that my brain cannot logically come up with an excuse as to why I shouldn’t call, why I can’t just make scrambled eggs, or heat up an Amy’s lentil soup.  I… just… can’t.  My husband has met him a few times, when I’ve decided to be open and share, and make it an over the table, on board transaction, but then, it doesn’t taste the same.  It’s not all mine, and it becomes a race between my husband and I as to who will finish their side of the pie first.   “Dom” rings my bell, the exchange is brief, and the satisfaction is instant, reinforced with liquid sugar over ice.  Within minutes, my emptiness is full, and the discomfort of my rising belly, and the lightheadedness of the sugar rush, puts me down.  I typically leave 1-2 pieces of the large pie uneaten, to ensure myself that I didn’t eat the whole thing.  I then tuck the remaining slices in a bag, and push it to the back of the refrigerator, so that only I can find it later.  It’s a relationship where I’m left fuller than before, and at the same time, emptier than ever.  When my husband comes home, I’ve forgotten how I have previously spent my evening, as the pizza box has already craftily been stored in the compost bin outside.  Yet in the morning when I awake, my husband is gone again, and the acid re-flux, and cascading rolls of my stomach, remind me of who, and what, I let come in my house, and in my body, the night before.

Self Wear and Tear

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