Carryout Pizza

I went to Domino’s to pick up my pizza.

An old lady was working carryout.  She looked like she’d had a whole life before Domino’s and was wondering how the hell she ended up there.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

I looked down and noticed I’d been stained by watermelon lemonade earlier that day.  I must’ve drank it poorly.  It was right on the center of my chest.  White t-shirt.  Pink spot.

“Pickup for Jonny,” I said and pulled one side of my jean vest all the way across so she wouldn’t notice.

She looked like me when I usta work at Domino’s.  Half happy to have a job, half embarrassed to be there.

She went and grabbed my pizza off the heat rack and put it down on the counter with the credit card receipt.  I held my vest firmly over the stain as I signed.

“Have a great night,” she said passionlessly.

“You too,” I said even more passionlessly.

I took one last look at her.  She was not a beautiful person.

I kept holding the vest with one hand as I walked out the store.  The other hand held the large pizza box, and it wobbled.

When I got inside the car I finally released the vest.

“Hooo,” I said, “she didn’t notice.”

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