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.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s