just call me seven


My Funny (non-existent) Valentine.
2 February 2008, 3:12 pm
Filed under: Cheesy Fiction, I Am A Geek, I'm a Big Dork

Well, I don’t have one yet, but what if this was how we met?

It’s nearly six o’clock on a blustery evening in the gray-colored month of March. The wind is blowing; the trees are rustling all around. A lonely bluebird warbles mournfully, high atop a power line. I am sitting in my living room with the blinds open so I can watch for the pizza guy… I hate it when they catch me off guard. My cash is sitting on the ledge by the door, ready to give to the (probably pimply-faced high-schooler) delivery man who soon will arrive.

My tummy rumbles… it’s been so long since I’ve had a pizza with the works. I can almost taste it now.

A silver 4-Runner pulls into my driveway, and a tall, dark-haired man steps out. He’s holding that huge red bag that keeps the pizzas warm in his left hand, and with his right gives his door a nudge to shut it. He strides purposefully up to my front door, and rings the doorbell with a rakish flair.

I open the door.

I stare for awhile (he is a handsome man).

“Pizza’s here,” he points out.

I come back to earth with a start. “Sorry. How much was it?” I ask.

“It’s on me,” he says.

I stare a little while longer. I think maybe I haven’t heard correctly, so I double-check: “What did you say?”

He says softly, “It’s on me. I paid for it already… you don’t need to pay.”

Light is beginning to dawn. “But why?” I ask. “Why would you do that?”

He clears his throat. “Well, I live on the other end of the street, and I’ve seen you and your sister walking around the neighborhood now and then. I noticed that you always wear pajama pants and baggy sweatshirts, and usually it looks like you haven’t showered in awhile. Your hair sticks up in some places and is plastered to your head in others, like you just woke up and all you did was run your fingers through it. And I thought to myself, ‘any woman who can walk around in public looking like that without seeming to care seems like an interesting woman to know.’ But I didn’t know how to meet you without seeming like a stalker, so I got a second job at Papa John’s and waited until I saw your address pop up on the delivery screen. I volunteered to take this delivery, and now here I am.”

I gently told him, “Some people might think getting a job at a pizza place in the hopes that you might be able to deliver to my house someday involves a little more in-depth stalking than just walking up to my door and introducing yourself.”

He looked a little crestfallen. “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to creep you out.” He turned away.

“Wait,” I stammer, “You don’t have to go. I’m not creeped out. But before we talk any more, I do need to make a couple requests. First, what’s your name?”

“Jack Jones,” he replies, “What’s your second request?”

I pause. I’m not sure how to say this. I give it a whirl: “Can we eat this pizza while we talk? I’m starving!”

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