Pizza Man
It’s quarter to eleven on Sunday night when someone knocks at the door to my apartment. I’m awake and online, trying to eke another three hundred words out of a short story that I’ve been struggling with all day, and the last thing I need is an interruption. Who the hell could it be at this hour? I’m tempted not to answer.
But I’m the only guy living upstairs—the apartment across the hall from mine houses a quartet of giggling college girls who think it’s cute their neighbor is young and gay, and the other two apartments are rented by elderly women who frequently ask me to change light bulbs or hook up their DVD players. It’s the thought of one of these ladies needing my help that forces me to answer the door.
The knock comes again as I reach for the door handle. I unlock the
