The only human interaction I had today took place in text messages. Oh, and the pizza place down the street. I have this not-really-a crush on the skinny guy that works there. I think I'm probably not attracted to him, but maybe I am, I don't really know. It's not like other crushes. Probably because he's selling me pizza. I used to think he was flirting with us, or at least with Josh, but now I understand that's something called "customer service." Anyway, I can't help it. Today was spent very much in my head and in my hands.
One Slice
As soon as I step in,
he asks what I've been up to,
like we're familiar enough
for him to understand
how I sat and embroidered
for hours; for him to get
that I'm only here because cooking
seemed like the final, inoperable chore;
for him to even fathom
the struggle I had just walking here
without feeling totally defeated.
But here he is, smiling and winking
like maybe he would get it,
like maybe the tips aren't everything
and to be liked and wanted
is only the concern of narcissists;
what would he know of desire--
a pizza boy in a corner spot
drawing steam lines on the dry-erase board
over a slice of pizza
that looks more like
a piece of melting apple pie--
what would he know of anything like that?
He tries to meet my eye
as I leave a tip, but I won't have it,
I won't give that away. A dollar,
fine, but not my eyes;
never look a man in the eyes
after he asks you
how you spend your time
when he isn't around.
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