Robyn Pops the Question to Oscar Pizza Delivery Guy: IWSG

    

It's thanks to Alex J. Cavanaugh that we bring you the IWSG on the first Wednesday of the month. Insecurities are revealed, support is offered, and - in my case - weirdness abounds. If you haven't joined us, please do. You won't regret it. All that's required is an insecurity or two hundred.
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  dialogue:  Edgar / Robyn

Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,
Did you watch the Oscar Awards? Today's guest had the most stellar performance of the night. He's Edgar Martisyan, the pizza delivery guy who helped feed the audience at the Awards Show! Come on out here, Edgar. Edgar struts out, dressed as he did on Oscar night with a stack of pizzas. Brad Pitt jumps up, as he did on Oscar night, takes the stack from Edgar, and helps distribute pizzas to our audience. Angelina scoffs and drags their 25 kids out of the studio.

Robyn notices that Meryl Streep grabs two pieces, handing one slice to her husband. Robyn turns to Edgar. What, the guy can't stand up and get his own pizza? Edgar shrugs his shoulders and holds a polite smile.  Robyn motions to a small red-velvet loveseat. She sits down and pats the meager space beside her thigh. Have a seat. Robyn flings her hair back. 

Edgar blushes, awkwardly. It's okay, I'm used to standing.

Robyn crosses her legs and pumps her chest out. Standing position is good too. Edgar, I don't see a wedding ring. Edgar doesn't respond.

I hear you like Julia Roberts, and she and I are the same age. And I heard you mention having lived in Moscow. What a coincidence! I've, I've, I've heard of Moscow.

Edgar looks at his watch, flustered. You performed with such coolness and confidence, and you didn't expect to be watched by the world. Did you? Edgar shakes his head. No. It was a total surprise. 

I think you're a fine example for writers, you know the writers you were supposedly going to deliver pizzas to. But writers didn't get any. It went to the filthy rich celebrities. As if they can't afford pizza or Sicily. Robyn clears her throat. Sorry, I digressed. You know, I'm naive like you. We should heat it up together, if you know what I mean. Robyn winks and bats her lashes.

Edgar fidgets, clearly uncomfortable.

Don't worry honey. I don't bite...Unless you want me to. She winks again, then slowly unbuttons the top button of her maroon silk shirt. Sometimes we perform our best when we don't know what we're getting into. I had no idea how many years it would take to write a novel and how many trees would be sacrificed. I just jumped into it. I'm glad I was naive like you, babe, because I might not be doing it if I knew how hard - Robyn blushes and giggles - excuse the expression, it would be.

Edgar nods and in a matter-of-fact tone says, Yes, I was calm because I had no idea what was going on. Robyn eyes him, head to toes. I like that about you.

Edgar's clearly had enough. He nods and gives a courtesy wave to the audience. Then he turns to Robyn, preparing to impart a curt goodbye.

Wait, don't leave, babe. Edgar politely stands still and listens to Robyn.  

I bet you deliver hot and fast sometimes, and slow and sizzling other times. She fingers her neckline. I like mine stringy, with lots of spice and hearty sausage. She chews on her lower lip. Actually, sweetie, I brought you on the show to ask you something. Will you marry me? 

Edgar appears terrified and runs off the stage. Robyn shrugs her shoulders. Brad Pitt hands her the last slice of pizza and a $700 tip for Edgar. Thanks, dude! Brad nods. Robyn rushes off the stage, chasing Edgar and failing to properly end today's show.