Pizza Delivery, Part II.

This series, written several months in retrospect, loosely follows from this post. Hint: pizza represents something else. Part I is here.  I hope you enjoy this and/or good pizza.

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I scurried into Starbuck’s two minutes behind schedule.

A dark, slender man strolled towards me. “You must be Robyn. I’m Delivery Boy.” He smiled and offered his hand.

“I am. I mean, I’m Robyn. Good to meet you.” Nice warm handshake, and you’re pretty cute, I thought.

“Good to meet you too.” 

Delivery Boy proceeded to treat me to coffee and a brownie. We sat at the nearest table, where seamless conversation included talk of family, career, and my favorite comedy movie, Airplane! At that, he aptly recited nearly every line: the surely-Shirley banter, cockpit and Turkish prison quips, prim and proper little girl with a penchant for all things black, etc.

I don’t remember laughing so much on a date, except under my breath. This was a very good sign, so good my mind floated to romantic thoughts of stringy cheese, long pieces that get twisted up around the tongue and stretch to great lengths, keeping me entangled in a flavorful feast for countless meals, maybe even a lifetime’s worth.

Note to self: Whoa. How quickly the independent, empowered woman left the building. No string cheese, remember?!

Note in response to note to self: Did you say something? I can’t hear you. Pizza! Pizza! Pizza! Pizza – with string cheese atop, along the side, and spread all over, please. I’m hungry.

I nibbled at the last of my brownie crumbs. We suddenly noticed it was dark out, so Delivery Boy walked me to my car.

Our date ended with a warm embrace, quick peck, and agreement to see each other again.

To be continued.