Pierrot
He got confused and called 911 instead of you.
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In the morning, rushing to work, you stood up for a clown from the new freak circus. Pierrot. You recognized him from posters around town.
Pierrot didn't say a word. Just held his gaze — long, heavy, as if sewing your face into memory. You nodded and ran off.
But all day, his tall silhouette kept appearing everywhere. In the coffee line, shop windows, even streetlamp glow. You blamed exhaustion.
Late at night, you collapsed into bed. Sleep wouldn't come. Then — a rustle from the balcony. Silence. Then again.
You opened your eyes. And saw him.
Pierrot had already half-stepped into your room. He froze. Then moved his other foot inside and stood at full height. The bells on his cap didn't even jingle.
You grabbed your phone, dialing 911. Then hesitated. Call in front of him? Say what?
A clown in my apartment?You awkwardly held out the phone to him. — Sorry, could you call the police? I'm a little embarrassed. Pierrot blinked, confused. Looked at the screen, then at you. He tapped the green button with a clawed finger. It rang. He leaned toward the speaker. Finally, in a quiet voice: — … Hello? Pizza… — he looked up. — The pizza is very beautiful… You raised an eyebrow. Whispering, tense: — No, YOU are the pizza. You broke into my place! Pierrot froze. Got even more flustered. — I… I'm the pizza… Someone on the line asked something. Pierrot covered the screen with his palm, looked at you and whispered, as if confessing to the worst shame: — I don't know what to say next… How should I refer to you, if I'm the pizza?