Blood & Pizza

When the door opens, the first thing you see is the blood dripping from her knees.

“It’s fine, I just need to clean it up is all,” she says. She smiles apologetically at the owner, a smile he meets with a frown as he sees the fresh scratches below the hem of her lacy black dress. His eyes sweep up and down, taking in the length of the dress, the height of the sparkly black heels that no doubt brought about the blood.

“Can I get some napkins?” asks a deep, male voice. His hand rests lightly upon the small of her back. It’s not that she’s having trouble walking — they are, after all, flesh wounds — but because she might, and even if she doesn’t, their bodies are still touching.

The owner nods curtly and hands over a stack of napkins. She hoists herself onto windowsill, careful to stay decent with the dress. Meanwhile, he dampens the napkins at the soda machine and proceeds to tend the wounds.

“I’ll do it,” she says.

“It’s fine,” he replies.

“No, please —” But he won’t hear it. He dabs gently at the crimson bursts on her legs and her protestations are supplanted by wincing.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, pausing in his labor.

“Just stings a little,” Her teeth are clenched against it. As she grows accustomed to the pain, anger darkens her face. She stares determinedly at his working hands, growing more cross with each second. She tries to grab the napkins.

“Can I just —” He snatches them away from her grasp, this time looking her in the eyes. He looks at her the way one would a misbehaving child. Didn’t I tell you to stop? His eyebrows are raised, inquiring. Her irritation increases in obstinacy.

“Why won’t you just let me do it?” he asks. It’s not a challenge, but a sincere question. He doesn’t understand why she won’t just let him help.

She holds his look, his question. Neither of them blinks as his dark eyes bore into her green ones. “It’s harder … when you’re nice,” she says softly. The words escape against her will. The green eyes plead for a moment, that he understand, that he acknowledge her feelings. But the moment passes; she blinks it away and breaks the gaze, seizing the opportunity to take a napkin and take over the cleaning.

His hands linger on her legs a moment. He is still looking at her face, searching for meaning in the now evasive green and the deep black that lines it. He exhales heavily, then turns toward the counter.

“You gonna order anything?” asks the owner. He is even more frustrated for having witnessed the companions’ display of almost-affection. He glances disdainfully at the girl, who still grimaces from time to time in her task. And why is she still wearing those shoes? Aren’t they the cause of all this stupidity? But of course, the shoes complete the outfit, and she cannot look anything less than perfectly put-together in front of this particular friend.

“You still want a pizza?” The boy asks her.

“Of course,” she says, glancing over at him. She points at her knees. “After all we’ve been through?” The annoyance is gone, as is the vulnerability that hid beneath it. The eyes sparkle with mischief and promise, with something that makes him smile as widely as if the world is theirs to conquer. And who’s to say it isn’t?

Without looking away from her, he orders a medium pepperoni pizza. He pays with a credit card. She tries to fumble in her purse for some means of payment, but he raises his eyebrows again, a Now what have I told you about that? She smiles sheepishly and puts the purse away.

She disposes of the napkins and lifts her legs slightly to assess the harm. He walks over to help, lifting from the back of her knees and examining them himself.

“Looks better already,” he says. He absentmindedly strokes the edge of her knee with his thumb.

“They’ll probably have to amputate,” she replies dully. He chuckles and she lets herself do the same, pleased that he enjoyed her joke.

“Just give ‘em like a week to heal,” he says. And then he tenderly blows air onto the damp skin, back and forth, right and left. She stares at him, nonplussed, but she doesn’t stop him this time. Her expression softens; her eyes take in every part of his face, and she tilts her head ever so slightly, as if seeing him for the first time.

He pauses. His body doesn’t move, but his eyes turn up to her face. They are both completely still, completely silent. Then, just as she shifts —

“One medium pepperoni!” The owner’s voice cuts through the stillness with all the grace of lightning in a storm. The boy jumps as if hit by a shock; he gladly goes to receive the pizza, and in the short walk tries to shake off whatever just occurred.

She watches his back while he walks away, averting her eyes sharply as he returns. She busies herself rearranging dress and purse, preparing to leap off the windowsill and onto her damaged legs. He offers a hand, and she slides hers into it. She stands up without problem and smiles triumphantly.

“Where shall we dine? My place or yours?” he asks.

“Let’s go back to mine,” she suggests.

“Actually, mine is closer,” he says. “Come on, I’ll walk you home.”

She sighs. “Only because I’m hungry,” she says with mock-sternness. He grins.

“Absolutely.”

Armed with a pizza, they leave hand in hand to conquer the world.