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“You look like you’re gonna sue me.” He points at the prep table. “Wash in. Dough’s ready. We’re already getting slammed.”

My station awaits.

Dough trays stacked low. Flour bin full. Sauce in a metal container with a ladle resting across the top. Shredded mozzarella. Pepperoni. The usual suspects.

The first ticket is easy. Large pepperoni, extra cheese. I slap the dough onto the floured counter and start working it out with my knuckles. Turn, press, stretch. The dough yields under my hands, soft but not weak. You can’t force it. That’s the thing people don’t get. Push too hard and it snaps back or tears. Let it think the stretch was its idea, and you can get it exactly where you need it.

My brain offers me Paul Benton.

Reasonable. Polite. Letting other people stretch the truth until it suits him.

I press too hard, and a thin spot opens near the edge.

“Fuck.”

Another ticket prints.

Then another.

My hands keep moving.

“Special?” Carmine calls.

I look up. “What?”

“Special pizza today. You never wrote it on the board.”

Right.

Every day, I come up with one.

Yesterday was hot honey sausage with whipped ricotta.

Good pie.

“Uh,” I say.

Carmine turns from the expo window. “Uh is not a topping.”

“I know.”

I look at the prep station. Not for anything in particular, just the first thing I see.

“Black and green olives.”

Carmine stares at me, his nose bunching.

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“Just a whole bunch of olives?”

“Correct.”

“You want me to write that where customers can see?”

“Unless you want to whisper it softly in their ears.”