Marcelle had a thing for pizza.
Cold on a hangover morning, greasy in front of a soccer game, muddled by her tears and thoughts, pretty grim at an airport, from the think crust napoli to whatever the american plebe was into these days (probably cheetos), she liked them all, preferably at the same time.
Her special interest wasn't something you could tell by looking at her: Marcelle was dedicated to pizza, but almost as much to being sexy. To be a pizza slut, you have to behave like a fitness nun. With the summer fast approaching, she followed a strict regimen: a diet filled with vegetables and sorrow, no ethanol in her drugs, and above all exercise.
She was in fact coming home from an excruciating 3-mile when it all began. She would have recognized this smell anywhere: not only pizza, but pizza she had never tasted before. In the city center, restaurants opened and closed in a constant flow of ambition and suboptimal business models, but somehow she had a feeling Dough Me was here to stay.
Opaque doors revealed as much about he restaurant as the menu, which was either written with black on black or empty : it all but begged for her, to get a look, a taste, some kind of mystic revelation maybe.
"Sorry miss, you can't get inside."
The man had suddenly materialized between her and the door she was about to open.
"Oh, but the sign says you're..."
"We are open indeed, as we will be all day every day, but I can't let you in right now."
"What? Why not?"
"The chef told me so. See my toque? It hides my disgraceful ears and most importantly my earbuds. You don't really fit the vibe he's going for. We're not really into sportswear, makes clients feel guilty. He might change his mind after a one to one, for instance tonight 3 a.m. at his place, here's the address."
"He's asking for a date?"
