Tracing broken hearts in the condensation on my coke glass, I sigh with a passion my drama teacher can only dream of. I’m spending Valentine’s Day with my parents in a Boston Pizza.
Two days ago, Ben fuckface Tucker dumped me. That rink rat stinks like jock straps and says things like he gives 110% to our relationship, but I only give 10% so we don’t add up. And he dumped me. It’s humiliating.
So, instead of going to the ninth grade “Friendship Dance” tonight, I’m the third wheel at a romantic dinner with my mom and dad. They order a heart-shaped pizza even though it costs an extra two bucks. Our cute server says it’s for charity. She smells like cherry chapstick and recommends the spicy pineapple topping. Sweet and savoury. She winks.
Each time she returns to check on us, she brushes against me. Replacing dropped cutlery—I’m so clumsy. Refilling my drink—I’m guzzling soda like a woman stranded in the Sahara.
My dad jokes about having two Valentine’s dates. Laughing, Cherry Chapstick tells him he’s a lucky guy. I turn tomato and pick at my pineapple, shaking extra red pepper flakes onto my slice. But I can’t tear my eyes away from her toned arms as she hefts a tray the size of a sea turtle.
When it’s time for the bill, she’s back with three coupons for dessert pizza. And on the back of mine is her name and number inside a heart.
Photo by Anna Keibalo on Unsplash
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