And Would I Mind Awfully?

Today’s tale includes badgers, Max and time travel. For Nicky.

Nicky and Mike over at We Work For Cheese are running a writing challenge throughout February.

I’m fond of Nicky, but her heart and other interesting parts belong to Ziva.

And dammit, they refuse to invite me over.

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When pizza is delivered, my heart always races.

Look, I’m a simple guy, with simple tastes.

The knocking on the door this morning is no exception; it’s a little early for takeout, but the badgers have pulled an all-nighter fixing the Time Pyramid, and Max offered to order out for some well-deserved circular brunch. My pulse races as I stroll to the door. Yes, I’m paying; when I said Max offered to buy brunch, what I meant is that he left his wallet at home, and would I mind awfully?

I chuckle; these absent-minded professor types, eh?

The dim light of the hallway blinks and yawns as I open the front door. It’s cold out, the trees are frosty and there’s steel in the air, but other than his creased slacks, the scruffy delivery guy on the doorstep faces the elements in just the dusty, sauce-dabbed shirt of his work uniform.

Tho right now, the stack of pizzas and the bags of bottled fizz are obscuring that slightly.

Pizza delivery, he sniffs, flicking his hair away from his piercings. I take the drinks from him, and then the stack of hot boxes, depositing them on the floor. The smell is intoxicating; I detect meat, chili, mushroom, lots of sauce, and an absence of onions. My mouth waters.

Thanks, I smile, distracted. His expression does not change.

Fifty-four eighty, me mumbles, with no concession to manners or interest, his hands creeping to his pockets. He looks past me, mildly curiosity perhaps, but most likely just bored with this exchange.

I finesse some notes from my wallet and smile at him, attempting to get a meaningful engagement from this yoof. Here’s sixty, keep the change.

He eyes flick to me, mild surprise registering.

Cheers, he grunts, and the money vanishes into an unspeakable pocket.

I wouldn’t mind so much, but these aren’t for me, I grin, pushing ahead recklessly, in the face of world-class indifference.

Huh? he grunts, his brain telling him to turn to leave, but then yanking him back; customer engagement is clearly throwing his game off.

These are for a friend. He sneers a little at this, but doesn’t reply. And for the badgers. This raises an eyebrow. I can’t have any, I’m dieting.

Whatever, dude, he sighs, his brain finally giving up. He turns and shuffles shambolically back towards his beat-up rust-bucket of a car.

I close the door, frowning, and wrestle once more with the heavenly scent in the hallway. Man, it smells fantastic; my stomach gurgles pointlessly.

When pizza is delivered, my heart always races.

Even if all I have to do is pay.


Indigo

This blog entry is protected by copyright © Indigo Roth, 2013