Page 5 of Business or Pleasure

“I’ll drink to that.”

He takes a long sip before setting down the empty glass, then splays a hand on the table, index finger tracing the wood grain. As though he’s carefully considering what he wants to say next. A dim light bulb catches the swirl of freckles along his cheeks, down his neck, tucked into the hollow of his throat. Not the exact shade of his hair, I’m noticing—some darker, some lighter. A whole beautiful constellation.

“I’ve got to preface this by saying that I don’t usually do this, but... Do you want to get out of here, Chandler?” At that, he winces. “Wow. That sounds like a really bad line. I swear, I’m genuinely wondering if you’re interested in leaving this place and going to a different place. One that has more food, because I’m kind of starving and the ‘loaded totchos’ on the menu don’t look very appetizing.”

I could tell him I have plans. That the loaded totchos actually sound fantastic and I’ve been debating ordering a basket ever since I sat down. And yet.

Drew saying it sounds like a bad line could fully be a line, I realize that, but maybe I’m not ready to go back to Noemie’s house and feel sorry for myself. This isn’t something I’d ever do, and yet in this moment, that feels like exactly the reason to say yes. I could toss my half-empty cider and get drunk on his attention alone.

I grab my wallet, throwing a few dollars down on the bar. “Let’s get out of here.”

We’re on a mission, Drew and I: find the perfect late-night slice of pizza. The first restaurant we tried was closed and the second only served full pies, and now we’re on our way to a place I swear is right around here somewhere...

“There!” I point to a flashing green Open sign on the corner, the delicious savory scent tugging us closer.

It’s almost ten p.m. and Capitol Hill is just waking up. So far on our walk, I’ve learned that Drew lives in Southern California and he’s in town for work. He’s been to Seattle a few times but never had the chance to really explore, so I’ve made it my unofficial goal to show him as much as I can.

I can’t remember the last time I was out on a Friday night, and it suddenly feels so full of possibility that I’m a little dizzy. Uncertain on my feet, so much that when I stumble across the pizzeria’s threshold, Drew steadies me with a hand to my lower back, that warm rush of contact going straight to my head.

“I’m relieved for you,” he says as we take our place in line. “I was about to be very disappointed in Seattle.”

The place is staffed by two aging punk rockers, Mudhoney playing over the sound system. I can always respect a Seattle establishment paying tribute to the Northwest’s long history of excellent bands. We may not have an abundance of by-the-slice pizza joints, but we know our music. Everyone clustered inside is in various stages of their nights: a trio of girls with flawless makeup and matching jumpsuits, a couple on what appears to be a first date, a group of college kids looking absolutely trashed, a shocking number of empty bottles covering their table.

Drew gestures for me to go first, so I order a slice of pepperoni roughly the size of a Yield sign while he asks for a garden veggie. A guy with a tattoo of what I think might be the old Kingdome on his neck eyes the pie for a moment before selecting the largest slice, piled with green peppers, mushrooms, olives, and artichokes.

When the cashier gives us plastic cups for the soda we order, Drew spends a moment inspecting his before filling it up with Sprite.

“Just making sure it’s clean,” he says with this sheepish smile. It makes sense—this hole-in-the-wall’s hygiene is questionable at best.

There are no chairs, only high tables with shakers of Parmesan and red pepper flakes. I dig into my pizza right away, feeling only a little barbaric when Drew opts for the more elegant fork-and-knife method. “God, so good. Their pepperoni is otherworldly—you want some? Just don’t tell my Jewish parents.”

“Oh—I’m a vegetarian,” he says, not sounding at all offended. He chews, then cuts off another small triangle, popping it neatly into his mouth. “About eighteen years. And Jewish, too, actually.”

I stare at him for a couple moments, because what are the odds that I’d meet a Jewish stranger in this way?

“No shit. I think the only thing I’ve done for eighteen years is manage to function with a consistently medium level of anxiety,” I say. “What made you decide to become a vegetarian?”

“Is it cliché to say that I love animals?” Drew asks. I get a flash of him holding a lamb, a piglet, a baby goat. “If not: that, and I was traumatized by The Jungle in high school. Couldn’t look at a hamburger the same way after that.”

“If you have time, you should try Pear Bistro. It’s this vegan restaurant downtown that’s always packed. Expensive, but amazing food.”

“One sec, I’m going to write that down.” He pulls out his phone, types it in, and slides it back into his pocket. Takes a sip of soda. “So you talk to strangers at bars, listen to Prince, and mysteriously came into possession of a self-help book written by an influencer. What else should I know about you?”

“I highly doubt she wrote it.” I might say it a bit too quickly, so I tear off a piece of crust, dipping it into the sauce on the pizza, trying to act nonchalant. “I always assume anyone remotely famous has, you know, a ghostwriter or something. But in terms of fun facts...” I give him my most serious look and prepare my sole fun fact, the one I’ve spent much of my life saving for games of two truths and a lie, only to be sorely disappointed by how few opportunities there are for it outside of corporate America. “I’m only seven years old.”

He just stares at me, a furrow appearing between his brows. “I... don’t have a witty response to that. Only concern and confusion.”

“I was born on a leap day,” I say. “I’m thirty-one, but technically, I’ve only celebrated seven February twenty-ninths. I get another one next year, which is always exciting. And I’m a Pisces, so I love drama.”

“I’ve never met a... leaper? Leapster? Do you have a name for yourselves?”

“Actually, yes. Leaper and leapster both work, but I’ve always preferred leapling.” I aim my pizza crust at him. “Your turn. Fun fact me, please.”

“Hmmm. I don’t know if I can beat yours, but I do have an encyclopedic knowledge of Lord of the Rings. And not just the books or the movies—like, I actually studied the Elvish languages as a kid,” he says. “As you can imagine, this made me very popular at parties.”

“It should have! Say something in Elvish?”

His mouth quirks upward. “You have no idea how many times I lay awake at night, hoping one day a cute girl would ask me that.” Then he schools his face into a more serene expression. “Vandë omentaina,” he says, a smile sneaking back in. “Technically, Elvish is a language family, with multiple languages and dialects created not just by Tolkien but by fans, too. That was ‘nice to meet you’ in Quenya, which originated as the language of the High Elves, who left Middle-earth to live far west in the Blessed Realms.”

---