Pizza
When I met him, he was smoking a cigarillo on the frosty balcony of the ski resort located halfway down the mountain. His checkered scarf caught my attention, which was promptly drawn away by the sight of him dipping his slice of pizza into ketchup. As I drew near, I could smell a faint splash of aftershave mixed with his nicotine, and I was immediately entranced by the image it conjured in my mind: an underground speakeasy card game. I swatted the idea from my head and sat at his table, arms folded.
"Ketchup on a pizza?" I said, faux indignation sizzling at the edges of my tongue. He took a drag, didn't acknowledge my presence with anything more than a curiously raised eyebrow, still taking in the scenery of the snowcapped . He let out a long breath of smoke and balanced his cigarillo on the ashtray in the middle of the table.
"Actually, sweetie," he glanced up at my amused face, tense with excitement for his excuse at such a culinary atrocity. In reality, I was also partial to ketchup on pizza, and had never heard another person's defense for liking such a thing which the rest of the world reacted so violently to. He doused the crust in the small red plate in front of him, my eyes never wavering from his as he took a large bite and said: "It's blood."