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Outside the sun shines brightly, one of those last sunsets you can enjoy as the prolonged summer in Boise finally begins giving way in the dark to the cold waiting but a month, maybe two more before it will render our back porch wet and uncomfortable. In the meantime I reheat some frozen pizza, still unwilling to deal with the fact that I finally have a kitchen to eat like my parents did. Our hookah is smoking from another bowl loaded too full, something I’m also still adjusting to being lord over. My roommate Jim is inside listening to something I can’t quite make out over the white noise I suddenly notice coming from the continual crunch of blackened dough, and I smile in recognition of my greater desire to close my eyes and sink into the strangely deep, rustic aroma of old mozzarella. I swallow and it catches, and I have to force it down with some orange soda. It takes me a moment to catch my breath before I set down the crust and step inside to catch the last verse I’ve suddenly found to be worth ending a narrative to enjoy.