I first walked and felt a sense of home. I live in a beat down apartment in the middle of Los Angeles, and came to Nancy’s all the way from there. I smelled Nancy’s fresh pizza in the oven and knew I had come to the right place. I remember when I ate my first slice of pizza at the age of seventeen. I felt young again. I ordered a single slice of Nancy’s deep dish pizza, and the wait time was very short. The pizza came within the minute. I picked up the cheesy dish as the sauce dropped off the side onto the floor so delicately, like a paper plane slicing through the wind landing softly upon the shoulders of a mother goose tending to her children. Nancy was watching from the back. I had to put on a show, it’s what Nancy wanted. I pushed my boney teeth into the dish. It sunk in, and my face lit up. Memories of my childhood rushed back to me, memories of that march afternoon when I had just turned seventeen. My parents had let me out of the cellar for the first time in over ten years, and treated me to a delightful surprise. I can’t even describe how it tastes anymore, every time I try its overridden quickly by an infectious disease. A disease called Nancy’s pizza. A wonderful disease, a disease that you would love to eat and slurp and digest. Then repeat. Always repeat. I payed with a 40% tip and as I walked out I glanced swiftly back to the kitchen opening. There I saw a lonesome Nancy, staring back at me. She winked, I winked. I closed the door and hopped in my car. I didn’t want to leave, but I had to. I pulled out of the park space, and as I drove past the door, I honked three times. First for the melty, dreamy, delicious cheese. Second for the creamy and delightful, spicy sauce. And third, for Nancy. ¯_(ツ)_/¯