Pizza Delivery, Part IV

This series, written several months in retrospect, loosely follows from this post. Hint: “pizza” represents something else. Part III is here. Enjoy this and/or good pizza.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It all seemed so unreal.

Delivery Boy called, as promised, the next day. Our connection evolved into a sweet and steamy summer romance. Between binges, there were frequent “I’m here for you” phone calls, strolls through the park hand-in-hand, and laughter about the absurd. I hadn’t giggled so much in years.

Wow. I ordered good pizza, and that’s exactly what I got – toppings placed in ways I’d never thought possible, prepared and delivered with more passion than I’d ever experienced. On the side, loving sensations marinated. It was a first since my divorce three years earlier.

One night after a frenzied take-out, I asked Delivery Boy about his route, expecting the typical reassurance he was apt to convey. “I’m the only one you deliver to, right? Do you see possible long-term arrangement for us?”

He answered decisively: yes, of course I was the only one. No, we had no future. Delivery Boy wouldn’t commit to an exclusive partnership with anyone, not now or later. If another woman placed an order, though, he’d do the honorable thing and tell me before filling it.

Note to self: I warned you! No string cheese, remember? What were you thinking?

Note in response to note to self: I wasn’t. I wanted the whole pizza pie. But so do you. Doesn’t everyone? Shut up and cut me some slack, or a thick hot slice of deep dish – no, no, never mind. I can’t eat it without string cheese. And that’s too fatty, and goes straight to the thighs, and leaves an all-consuming and confusing aftertaste. Damn string cheese!

Needless to say, Delivery Boy’s response was hard to swallow.

“I need to sleep on it,” I told him. We’d have a heart-to-heart the next day.

Stay tuned for the final delivery.