My Cardboard Balcony

Pineapple Pizza by Belinda Roddie Pineapple pizza just isn't for me, though my wife adores it, and bless her soul for it. I do not mind it if she eats as much as she desires. A heaping bowl of pineapple is hers, and as she rolls the dough out, I can see the glint of glee in her eyes. The cheese drizzles down like snow, and she is lost in a pie reverie. The fruit in slices settles in its role as sweetener to savory. I stay with my pepperoni as the heat grows incessant in the oven. Yes, the day I stop my wife from eating pineapple on pizza is the day humankind falls.

Leslie wore white sneakers, torn purple-stained jeans, and a black hoodie with an indecipherable logo splayed across it in metallic gold. She walked over to the counter to order a black coffee, and the shy, red-haired and dimpled barista fell absolutely in love with her. This was Vanessa, and she was just getting over the terrible night she had just hours ago, when her father had once again threatened to kick her out of the house.