two piece and a pop

I drive home from my date tonight (no one you know). One that started out nicely and then went horribly wrong. And all I can utter is “good GOD, good GOD, good GOD”, in a way that sounds like I am hacking up a hair ball. I drive up to Megabite pizza on Commercial Drive. I know I look lovely. My hair is shiny and bouncy, I am wearing a brand new flattering houndstooth frock. The elegant diminutive gentleman behind the counter opens the door for me, delighted and surprised to see me. He inquires, gallantly, with a ballroom sweep of his arm, “How was your night, my lady?”

I am so grateful for his question I give him a “Where have you been all my life” kind of smile. He probably thinks I’m high. I’m not. He just happens to be the first man to ask me a question in the past six hours.

I say, “Well, to be honest, I’ve just been on a rather exhausting date.”

He tilts his head, trying to comprehend. He says, enigmatically, “You are a woman. You should enjoy being a woman.”

“Oh, I enjoy being a woman immensely.” I raise my eyebrows suggestively. “Just not tonight.”

“Do you want the special, Madam?”

“The what?”

“The special. Two piece and a pop.”

I love the alliteration.

“Sure, why not. Two piece and a pop. Ha! Yes. Please. I’m starved.”

“I am happy to make you happy.” He says, and means it.

“Thank you, kind sir. Have a wonderful night!”

“You too, my lady.” He holds open the door and leads me out into the night.

2am, Commercial Drive, a poetic whiff of Camelot.