The Pizza Girl by Lord Malinov

“Hey there,” the pizza girl said, “David?”

The question mark is part of the flirtatious game we play, this lovely pizza girl and I. For about six months, at least once a week, I drop by to pick up a pizza for the family. Usually she gives me a big pepperoni pizza, although every so often, I manage to sneak a supreme. The kids aren’t entirely ready for the full blown pizza experience, but on well chosen occasions, they’ll bear the excesses of flavor for my sake.

The pizza girl knows my name. I can hear it in her voice when I call to make my order, see it in the bright smile she gives as I enter the tiny shop. The pizza girl knows my name but pretends she doesn’t. On the other hand, I don’t know her name. I’m too shy to ask. When I imagine talking to her, I call her “beautiful.”

“Hey, beautiful,” I imagine myself saying, “how’s the pizza business?”

“It sucks,” she’d reply with an infectious grin. Sometimes I imagine the conversation will be easy.

I picked up five pizzas on Halloween, feeding a party of kids before they assaulted the streets on their annual candy begging mission. I arrived a bit early. The pizza girl wore low slung jeans and her pizza t-shirt tied up to expose her smooth midriff. I licked my lips as she checked the pizza progress, turning her back as I feasted my eyes on the delicious vision of her behind.

“It sucks working on Halloween,” she said, after telling me I’d have to wait another ten minutes. “I’d rather go out and get fucked up.”

My mind reeled with responses to that opening, so many witty rejoinders assaulting me that I found myself unable to speak. That’s my usual technique – smile and imagine all the things I might say. It’s not an effective style, generally, although my apparently handsome visage tends to carry the amused silence better than we might expect.

“I love your costume,” I imagined myself saying. The pizza girl blushed.

In most instances, the pizza business is too busy for me to manage more than a few words with her before another customer calls. I don’t worry, for our demand for pizza is incessant. I will soon return for another brief tete-a-tete.

“You seem tense,” she’d say. I love to imagine it will be easy.

“Was that your wife who called?” she asked, last time I picked up a pizza.

“Sure was.” I’m not one to deny the obvious.

“She doesn’t like picking up the pizzas?”

“I guess she doesn’t,” I replied, once more at a loss for anything witty to say.

“Or maybe you just like coming up here?”

“Yes, I do.” I am a self-proclaimed master of dialogue, yet profoundly unable to actually say anything clever on the spot.

“Have a nice evening,” she says.

“You seem tense,” I might reply.

“I am so tense,” she replies.

“You need a massage,” I observe, confident of the fact that, in fact, everyone always needs a massage.

“Oh, I do,” she replies, her dark eyes aflame.

“I have a table and very strong hands.”

“Do you?”

“Give me an hour and I’ll relieve some of that tension.” My voice had dropped to a smouldering whisper. I am so seductive in my fantasies.

The pizza girl has very long black hair, down past her shoulder blades, silky straight and flirtatiously alive. I imagine brushing my hand through her hair, drifting down along the smooth curves of her satin latte skin. Perhaps twenty in age, giving or taking a few years, the pizza girl sounds coarse and abrupt with the rest of the Spanish-speaking pizza crew, but energetic and delicately warm with me. I know she thinks about me. I can hear it in the way her voice changes for me.

“That’ll be eight sixty-five.” As I hand her the ten, I’m watching her breasts move gently beneath the pizza t-shirt she always wears. Full, voluminous boobs jiggle slightly with the energy of her excitement. I blindly imagine the dark nipples beneath the cloth, catch vague hints of the hardness that develops under my gaze.

“I love your titties,” I imagine myself saying, suddenly crude for the sake of acceleration.

“Come back at ten,” she might say with a laugh. “I’ll introduce you.” My cock stirs, anxious to participate in the proposed soiree. Don’t worry, big fella, we won’t forget you.

As she takes the change from the cash register, her hand stretches forth. My hand reaches toward her and she lays the bills and silver into my palm, gracefully touching my hand with hers, lingering in the connection for as long as pizza decorum will permit. Our eyes meet. Her nipples harden perceptibly. I want to speak.

“Thank you,” is all I can bring myself to say.

The pizza guys always seem to be watching, curious, amused or jealous. Since I don’t speak their language, I have no clue. The pizza girl doesn’t do anything overt to express her feelings for me, so I assume she doesn’t want them to know anything. Maybe she does. I can only imagine.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t coming on to him, slut pizza girl.”

“So what if I was. Mind your own business.”

Suppose we meet for a cup of coffee, a dish of ice cream, a bottle of beer. She wanted to get “fucked up,” so perhaps the beer is what she’d prefer. We might share a twig, put the daze in our lust-enflamed eyes. I brush the hair back from her face, caressing in a moment the soft flesh of her browned cheek. She kisses me. I enfold a breast in my left hand, squeezing the heavy flesh and teasing her thick nipple. She takes my rigid cock in hand, slips the stiffness between her sultry lips. I kneel behind her, hands grasping her young round ass, riding our hunger home.

“Do you want some Parmesan or peppers?” she asked.

“Sure.”

Fumbling with the pizza box, she graces me with garnishments. I smile wantonly, wishing I could dare to ask her name.

“Have a nice evening,” she said. I could feel her wish to be part of that imagined time.

“I will,” I replied. “You, too, beautiful.”