I open the door, greet him and see that he is leaning on the door frame with the pizza balanced and held high in his left hand. He seems very relaxed. He doesn't smile, but right away engages in a conversation.
"Are you Greek?" he asks in an easy voice.
He is a young one. My guess is that when I was 27, I could have changed his diapers.
"No, I'm not Greek. I am French Canadian." I reply and touch my hair. It's always the hair that makes them think that I am of Mediterranean ancestry.
I notice that he takes a quick, not very subtle look at my cleavage.
"Do I look Greek to you?" I inquire.
"Yes, you do." He finally smiles.
"And what country are you originally from?" I ask as I sneak a peek at his biceps, not so subtly.
"I am from Lebanon." He responds as he hands me the pizza.
"Oh, that is a beautiful country," I tell him as we make eye contact.
"Yes, it is." He agrees.
I pay him, give him a generous tip, thank him, and he is off to deliver his next pizza and line.
5 comments:
Touching your hair... tres flirtatious, ma belle.
Bien sur ma belle... c'est comme ça que ça ce fait...
Is there any of that pizza with the black olives left? I'm starving.
Sorry XUP, the Erratic Genius is a pizza monster... it's all gone!
Too bad. Pizza with olives is soooo yummy.
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