Changeling

“I’d like a pizza for three. With, um, pepperoni. And sausage. Italian sausage. Not chicken sausage.” the man says slowly. “Yeah, in a box.”

He looks as if he’s going to cry any second.

I nod, but before putting it in the machine, or stop myself, I blurt out, “Are you alright, sir?”

He bites his lip. “Yeah,” he says.

“Can I get you something to drink, sir? Just for while, you know, while you wait?”

“Um. Not yet?” As he signs the bill, his hands are shaking. He speaks in curt phrases, separated by just-a-half-beat-too-long pauses. He’s sweating profusely.

“No hurry, sir. It’ll be ready in about 15 minutes, sir. Would you like to wait here?”

“No, no. I’ll go and come back. Actually-” His face draws in even more, his eyebrows curling in. “Could you hold it? My wife is at the doctor’s office. I don’t know how long it will take.”