Work I

When I ventured into the back of the pizzeria to ask him about a call, I found him just outside the door, sitting on a rickety metal chair, taking a smoke break. He used to just open the door and sit on the stoop, but I fought him over it because it lets the bugs in. As long as I press him consistently, he gives in and uses the chair instead.

He looked up alertly up as I opened the door. His body remained completely relaxed and in the dim light he was the epitome of rangy masculine grace, long legs spread and a cigarette dangling carelessly from long, lean fingers. The orange light of the street-lamp mellowed him, complimenting his brown colouring and coordinating with the glow of his cigarette, the eggplant shade of his t-shirt, and the purple lines that were always present on his face, slashed diagonally under each eye. Those lines should have made him look like shit; however, they suited him, made him look interesting.

"There's a woman on the phone and she's not happy," I informed him, as he narrowed his eyes at me tiredly. "I told her we don't take the tax off of Reserve deliveries if they're under twelve dollars, but she wants to talk to you."

"Just tell her we don't."

"But I said 'I don't think we do' and she said 'you don't THINK so?' and then she asked for Eric, and I told her you were here and I'd ask you to make sure--"

"Just tell her we don't. You can do this on your own."

After a moment of hesitation, I said "fine" and briskly shut the door. I could have pressed the issue, but I didn't. I could handle it myself, and I knew it, but that wasn't what stopped me. Night, colouring, posture, my own exhaustion, and whatever other factors had for a moment changed him from something ordinary into something enchanting, and I didn't want to be the one to ruin it.