For the love of pizza

This story is not about how we met at +39 Pizza Bar on a bustling Melbourne laneway for the love of pizza.
It is not about how too much food was ordered. Food restraint is not my forte. This time I blame it on the Italian accent—perhaps rehearsed, but still, not helpful when it comes to saying no to a plate of bruschetta.

Neither is this a story about the bottle of red we shared. I am not even going to mention how it had a grape-stomping party in my head the morning after.

This is a short story about moments of life, little stills stitched together by the thread of time.

Moments like these are the brightest threads in that thick, strangely cut fabric.