Business at supper had been much better than the usual Sunday, but when the weather turned nasty orders slowed to a crawl. I looked at the clock and smiled, pleased. It was a quarter past eight and my mother was on her way to pick me up.

I walked over to the oven and opened the door a crack, looking in. My pizzas were a bit of a joke around the restaurant, being composed of nothing but dough, sauce and tomatoes. It wasn't so long ago that I would have agreed with the sentiment that a pizza is incomplete without cheese, but lately I had grown quite addicted to my veganized version. Making and eating a pizza at the end of every shift had become a habit.

I looked over to the cold table where Francis was busy with donairs and my smile turned slightly malicious. He hates making donairs, and I usually end up doing them when we work together. I do not appreciate this, as it is not a particularly pleasant task.

I checked my pizza again, then thrust the thin metal spatula underneath and smoothly lifted it out. It was nicely browned around the edges and began to steam the moment it cleared the oven door. Balancing the spatula, I leaned down and pulled out a pizza box, deftly opening it one-handed. I twisted my arm and prepared to slide the pizza into the box--

I leaned in closer and made a face. "There's a bug in this box!" I told Francis, who was passing by the pizza counter.

"What?" he said, and leaned in to look.

"Gross," I muttered, as he removed the dead mosquito.

It happened in an instant. One minute Francis was looking up and his eyes were moving to the spatula with the beginning of a "whoa" in his mouth, and the next the pizza had slid right off and landed on the floor, sauce side down.

I sucked in a long horrified gasp and bent over, staring at it in shock. Francis burst into incredulous laughter, moving around to my side of the counter. "Did it land right side up?" he asked, and then slumped against the counter and became incoherent with amusement for some time when he saw it had not.

My pizza. My beautiful pizza. I sank to the floor and put my face in my hands in mock-shame and real dismay. My night seemed ruined and my mood swung in a second. I raised my head and stared at it despondently. It was still steaming.

"Fuck!" I yelled. He burst out laughing again. I let out a long, loud wail and then put my face in my hands again.

Sensing I was really upset, he said, "Make another one. I'll figure something out."

"My pizza," I moaned from the floor. "I guess Maximus can have it," I added bravely, then pouted at the thought.

"Make another one!" he repeated, sounding a bit irritated. "Just don't sit there, looking like that."

"I can't make another one," I said moodily, starting to get up. "I don't want to pay for two."

"Just tell Alec you dropped it."

"He'll tell me I have to pay for it. This is Alec we're talking about." Francis was silent at that. I picked up my pizza dough, put it back on the spatula, and started rubbing the mess on the floor with some paper towels.

"Take some paper towels and wipe off the top of your dough, then put more ingredients on," suggested Francis.

I stopped sopping up the mess for a moment and glanced at my sorry-looking pizza. It wasn't dirty. "That's an idea," I said, cautiously optimistic. After I had wiped up most of the stuff on the floor I took another paper towel and blotted the dough clean, then added more sauce.

"I've never seen anyone drop a pizza before," said Francis.

"Me neither," I said, and we both grinned.

"Wait. You can't have my tomatoes," said Francis, looking in the little container. "I need them all for these donairs."

I looked at him. "Fine," he said, and dropped a few pieces onto my pizza.

"That's all?" I asked, prodding them a bit. He dropped another handful. "There, take them all," he said, mock-annoyed.

"I'll cut you another tomato before I leave," I promised, and reached for the pizza cutter. My tomatoes wouldn't be cooked, but at least my pizza was saved.

"Wait wait, don't cut it!" said Francis. He came over and arranged my tomatoes a bit and then put took the spatula away from me, sliding the pizza back into the oven. "I'm never letting you take a pizza out again," he said, grinning.

After I cut up another tomato Francis slid my pizza safely into a clean box and cut it. A couple of customers came in for the donairs and my mother knocked on the side window. I grabbed the box. "Thanks for fixing my pizza," I said casually.

"No problem," he replied, without looking up.

When we got home I closed myself into the den to avoid my dog and opened the box. 9 inch pizzas are usually cut in four pieces, but I liked mine cut in six. He had seen me do this once, and I guess he remembered, because there was my pizza, neatly divided into six pieces. I pulled a slice out and took a bite.

Mmm. Good pizza.