Pineapple Pizza Monday
Mondays at work were always long days, Harley thought. After a weekend with his girlfriend, Jamie, he was dying for a quiet evening without meaningful conversation. He’d set up a date with Luke (who had, of course, named his dog “AnnaLee”) to watch the local baseball game with him, and ordered his own favorite, a large pineapple and ham (“Large Mauai, deliver 6:45” he heard shouted out) pizza. His ‘fridge was stocked with Molson and a few IPAs, and there were still a few pounds left of potato chips and Cheese Fish from the Costco packages, only slightly smaller than their puppy chow bags. Sam, his cubicle’s mirror-man (desk across from him, with only a plexiglass barrier; they would sometimes play, like the Marx brothers, that a looking-glass had been removed) asked if he was doing anything special that night, a common afternoon query designed less to elicit an answer than to convey that any conversation beat pretending to work. Harley had just shaken his head, which truthfully expressed his expectation. Just a quiet evening with a friend, he anticipated.
