"The Last Slice"

It was a warm Friday evening in the small town of Elmwood, Ohio. Streetlights flickered on as families headed home from high school football games and the scent of fresh dough wafted through Main Street from Tony's Pizza, the town’s oldest and most beloved restaurant.

Inside Tony’s, every table was full—teenagers in letterman jackets, grandparents with grandchildren, and couples out on first dates. But in the corner booth, sat 17-year-old Max Rivers and his best friend, Jordan. The two had just finished their last shift at Tony’s before heading off to college in opposite directions. A hot pepperoni pizza sat between them, steam rising, and one slice remained.

Max leaned back, patting his stomach. “Man, that hit the spot.”

Jordan smirked. “You gonna eat that last slice?”

Max narrowed his eyes. “You know the rules. Last slice is sacred. We gotta earn it.”

They laughed, remembering the tradition they started as freshmen. Whenever they shared a pizza, the last slice had to be won through a challenge—whether it was a coin toss, an arm wrestle, or a staring contest. It wasn’t just about food; it was about friendship, competition, and tradition.

“Alright,” Jordan said, cracking his knuckles. “Best of three—rock, paper, scissors?”

“Let’s do it.”

They went back and forth, laughing and cheating and starting over until Max finally won.

“Boom!” Max cheered, snatching the last slice triumphantly.

Jordan leaned back, arms crossed. “I let you win. For old time’s sake.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

As Max took a bite, the front door jingled and in walked Tony himself—now 73 and semi-retired, but still showing up every Friday to chat with regulars. He spotted the boys and shuffled over, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

“You two causing trouble again?” Tony asked with a grin.

“Only the good kind,” said Max.

Tony glanced at the empty pizza tray. “Last slice ritual still going strong, huh?”

Jordan nodded. “Some things never change.”

Tony chuckled, then sat beside them. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of last slices in this place. Dates turning into marriages. Friends becoming strangers. Strangers becoming friends. But you two—always in that corner booth, same order, same jokes. I’m gonna miss that.”

“We’re gonna miss it too,” Max said, suddenly realizing how final everything felt.

Jordan looked at Tony. “How’d you end up running this place, anyway? You ever wanna leave Elmwood?”

Tony smiled wistfully. “When I was your age, I did leave. Moved to Chicago, big dreams of becoming a chef. Worked in fancy kitchens, learned a lot. But I missed this—the people, the stories, the simplicity. Came back, bought this place from old Mr. Gianni, and never looked back.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “You never regretted it?”

Tony paused. “Sometimes. But I don’t regret the people I fed, the memories made here. Life’s not always about going far—it’s about what you build where you are.”

The boys sat in silence, absorbing the moment. The restaurant buzzed around them, but for a second, time slowed.

Tony stood up. “Before you go off chasing big dreams, remember—you can always come back. There’s always a slice waiting for you.”

He walked off to greet another table, and Jordan looked at Max.

“Think we’ll come back here?” Jordan asked.

Max shrugged. “We better. I’m not done beating you for the last slice.”

They both laughed. As they stood to leave, Max grabbed a napkin and scribbled something on it. He slid it under the empty pizza tray before walking out with Jordan into the cool night air.

The next morning, Tony was cleaning the booth when he found the napkin. On it, in Max’s messy handwriting, were the words:

“No matter where life takes us, we’ll always meet here—corner booth, one large pepperoni, and a fight for the last slice.”

Tony smiled and folded the napkin, placing it inside the restaurant’s guest book, among old Polaroids and birthday cards from decades past.

Years passed. Max became a journalist in New York. Jordan taught music in California. They built lives, made new friends, fell in love, faced setbacks, and chased their dreams.

But every August, without fail, they came back to Elmwood—corner booth at Tony’s, one large pepperoni, and one last slice waiting to be earned.

And in that slice, in every laugh, and in every bite, lived the memory of who they were—and who they never stopped being.