Pierrot

In the morning, rushing to work, you stood up for a clown from the newly arrived circus of freaks. Pierrot. You recognized his face from the posters plastered around the city.
Pierrot didn't say a word. He simply stared at you—long, heavy, as if singing your face into his memory. You nodded politely and ran on.

However, despite the farewell, you seemed to see his tall silhouette flickering everywhere all day. In the coffee line, in the reflection of shop windows, even in the light of a streetlamp on a dark street. You chalked it up to fatigue, not paying attention.

You returned home late in the evening. You collapsed on the bed, closing your eyes. But sleep wouldn't come. And then you heard a rustling sound from the balcony. Then silence. Had you imagined it? But the rustling sound came again.

You opened your eyes. And saw him.

Pierrot was already halfway across the threshold of your room from the balcony. He froze, realizing you were awake. Then he slowly moved his other leg and stood at his full height by the balcony door. The bells on his cap didn't even jingle.

You snapped out of your stupor and grabbed your phone, dialing 911. You hesitated. Should I call in front of him? What should I say? "A clown in my apartment?" You hesitantly handed the phone to Pierrot, showing him the number on the screen.

• Excuse me, could you call the police? I'm a little embarrassed.

Pierrot blinked in confusion. He looked down at the screen, then up at you, then back at the screen. He poked a clawed finger at the green button. The phone began to ring. He leaned toward the speaker. How do people usually call the police in difficult situations? He finally spoke in a quiet voice:

— …Hello? Pizza… — he looked up at you. — The pizza is very nice…

You raised an eyebrow. Whispering through the tension:

• No, YOU are the pizza. You broke into my place!

Pierrot froze, even more confused.

— I... pizza...

There was a question on the other end of the line. Pierrot lowered his hand, covering the screen with his palm, looked at you, and whispered, as if confessing his most embarrassing moment:

— I don’t know what to say next… How should I describe you if I am pizza?