The Leftover Slice

"I hear footsteps," Peeza whispered, cautiously. She prayed it would be her this time. That she'd be the one plucked from the Box. But there were no guarantees. Ever. Cecilia, armless and legless and with only three sides, did her best to inch closer to the edge of the Box as to increase her chances of getting picked. To Peeza, this was maddening. Unfair. Cheating. 

At once, a pretty hand full of silver rings and purpley-painted fingernails reached into the Box and pulled Cecilia out by the crust. Peeza barely had a moment to react, but within that moment, could not contain herself. "DON'T LEAVE ME!" Cecilia could hear Peeza's shriek fade rapidly as she was ripped from what was no longer her home. She was overjoyed and depressed all at once. Happy to go, but sad to leave Peeza. "Goodbye, P! So long! Farewell! Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye! I'll miss you. I really will." Not that sad, clearly. Remnants of her outer layer dropped off her body and a pineapple chunk flopped forward, hitting Peeza in her teary eyeball. ICK! The thought of being covered in sliced fruit was almost as disturbing as being the last slice left in the Box. 

And that was that. Cecilia was gone, and Peeza was alone in complete and utter darkness. The thought of it sent a chill down her crust, which was already starting to cool. Being a leftover. My Gosh. The thought of being a leftover made Peeza's cheese stop boiling. Made her pepperoni flare up. Yet, there she was. The last slice in the Box, and she was beginning to lose hope. 

No slice wants to be a leftover slice. 

Since yeast, that's what they teach us. That from the moment of conception, a slice spends its life gearing up for a hot and gooey human bite. The thought of wasting a ferociously fresh batch of ingredients on a bout of overnight refrigeration, a slice just couldn't bear. And what's worse than that? A late night incident in which a half-drunken, muddled-brain leaves the last slice out on the kitchen table, a breeding ground for bastardly food-borne bacteria just waiting for the right mating temps. 

Peeza could hear laughter in the distance, beer glasses clinking together, the sounds of gulping and cheering and hysterics. Which brings me to my next point. Beer. The arch-nemesis of any cheesy slice. Beer was a bitch! You'd think that we'd get along. Beer gets humans buzzy, and buzzy humans like to eat. Right? Wrong. That's just a well-preserved myth to conceal a less pleasant reality. There is no friendship there. After a certain amount of time, humans stop eating. Humans don't stop drinking beer. The effects of beer run all night long. The point at which a human stops munching but continues to guzzle is the point at which panic sets into the mopey meatball of a saddening last slice. 

She was quite the bite. Peeza, that is. She was triangular in shape. A caloric cluster consisting of divine dough, oil from olives, cheese, chili flakes and the most perfectly placed pepperoni pieces. So much so that I'd challenge you to find a better batch. Peeza was greasy and gooey, salty and spicy, fiery and fresh. And there was still hope. There was still a chance that the merry mortals would finish off the pie and refrain from leaving any slices for the next day. Still a chance that the happy humans were not yet stuffed, that they'd continue to eat in all of their pizza glory, despite the fact that they had already finished off five pies. Still a chance. 

Peeza sat still and contemplated her fate. She leapt when the Box opened up again. She squinted as her pizza peepers adjusted to the bright, fluorescent lights. She waited for the half-drunken, muddle-brained human's hand to come for her lukewarm crust. Hoping. Wishing. But it never did. Instead, a pregnant pause as the human's eyes glared down at her. What was really only a couple of seconds felt like an eternity. And then, the two most horrifying words that'll set fear and fright into any last slice of the pie;

"I'm full."

The Box shut abruptly and the human's doughy fingers disappeared and everything went dark as Peeza's cheese got the chills. She could hear those pesky pathogens already creeping through the cracks. She let out a sigh and surrendered to the end of her journey. That was it. She’d be a meaningless cold breakfast instead of a delightful dinner special. 

Peeza looked up, and then to her right, trying to see through the darkness, triple checking to make sure that she was really the last one. She let out a small whimper as tiny tears rolled down her cheek. She was ice cold. By now, she'd need a microwave, which she could certainly come to terms with if worse came to worst. 

And then suddenly...by the grace of God... she heard another voice. 

"Hun, do you wanna go halfsies with me? I could still eat.” 

And just like that, four feet and twenty toes made their way toward the Box. The idea of bubbling back up through electromagnetic radiation was now thrilling to Peeza because in a moment's time, she’d be eaten. The duo took a knife and opened the Box. The blade made its way closer and closer to Peeza’s face, which sent her into a euphoric upward spiral. They cut into Peeza's greasy, gooey, cheesy, salty frame with its perfectly placed pepperoni portions, creating two identical halves; Peeza and a pal. They popped the pair into the microwave, cooked them crisp and brought them over to their beer-clad coffee table. 

“This is the last of it!” And she was. They were the last of it. Peeza and her pal. The happy humans devoured the two half slices and then washed them down with a cold brewski. Not that she wanted to be flushed by a beer, but she wasn't about to get fussy.

Peeza wasn't a leftover slice. She wasn't a remainder, or a remnant, or a scrap. She was part of the pie, pepperoni and all.