scent of italian sausage and fresh basil . . .
For the third day in a row, Suzy the administrative assistant has brought me a slice of her grandfather’s infamous pizza. And for the third day in a row I have eaten it under her watchful eye, savoring it, smelling it, closing my eyes orgasmically as I let the spicy sauce glide over my tongue and the cheese dribble down my chin and onto my keyboard, and proclaiming, upon completion, that THIS is the best one, even better than yesterday’s, better than any pizza I’ve ever had before. After I’ve gushed to Suzy’s satisfaction, she returns to her desk, and we resume our work in silence, knowing we won’t speak again until tomorrow at Pizza Time. I never imagined food would be the thing that would bring us together. Of course, it helped that I finally realized her name is “Suzy” and not “Susie.” But complimenting her grandfather’s pizza was a smart idea, not only because it made Suzy finally treat me like a human being, but also because it wasn’t a lie; it really is the best pizza I’ve ever had. So, now she brings it to me, every day like clockwork, bestowing me with the honorable membership into the elite group that is deemed worthy of access to her pizza. Mmmmm. I love Italians.