He’d waited all day. He picked it up after work and now waited on the bus. Logically, it was best to wait. To open the box while comfortably at home. It would be rude to open it now with all the strangers around. They would eye him with hatred, envy. They would covet what was his. What he acquired of his own free will and desire. No, he would not open it now. He called it discipline but knew it was societal politeness, or rather a preventative measure to protect his prize from strangers. Then the bus broke down. Thirty minutes, they said.
The decision was made. He couldn’t wait any longer. He’d waited enough and put himself through unnecessary pain. He opened it, grabbed the largest slice, and shoved the pizza in his face. The first bite was bliss, and he found he didn’t care if anyone else was jealous.