seafood pizza

I was squeezing the marinara once, when I met the new driver. Gotta squeeze the mussels, or the pizza’ll be too gluggy. Sharp, pungent ocean entrails, gag reflex, dead bodies squirt between your fingers, often think they’re still wriggling. Turn down Alex’ introductory handshake. He reeked of kerosene and stared at my tentacle fingers with orange cat-eye lenses.

Alex used to come take the butcher’s knife from me- he’d come straight off the vespa and onto my chopping board. He’d mound up the bacon and schick schick schick, no worries. He loves cutting meat, he told me, just the feel of the flesh under his nails, the limp bounce of a metallic body.


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