Don't ask me why so many of these things involve pizza. I have no idea.
He could make a pizza in thirty seconds.
Hands flattening the balls of warm, elastic dough that sat breathing in their flat aluminum beds - he had a farmboy's hands, calloused and big like a puppy's paws; swirling sauce thick with oregano and basil over the crust's white skin. Toppings - flat poker chips of pepperoni, dark-eyed olives, mushrooms and peppers - cheese falling in thick drifts overtop. A quick and graceful Baryishnikov turn, sliding the pan into the oven behind him, and the whole dance began again.
She was obviously out of her mind.
The restaurant was nearly empty, that quiet breath between lunch and dinner. She was sitting at the counter of an empty restaurant listening to Frank Sinatra, drinking her third San Pelligrino and blowing off an organic chemistry lecture she'd really be better off attending, and for what? To watch some nameless fellow make pizza after pizza? Why was she doing this?
Colleen would say she'd just have to walk on over there, lean over the counter, give him one of her million dollar smiles and ask him his name. And while she was at it, ask him when he got off work, too.
Easy for Colleen to say. Probably easy for Colleen to do, too.
She'd do it. Yes.
Just get up and walk over there and look up into his dark eyes and ask him.
Hi.
My name's Connie. Connie DiAngelo.
What's yours? Where're you from?
When do you get off work tonight?
You wanna go out? For a coffee? A bite to eat?
Maybe get married?
She straightened her shoulders determinedly.
It would be so easy. Piece of cake. Just walk over and ask him.
Yeah.
Maybe ...
After another water.
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