Friday night at Magma Pizza

He swept through the door like a sudden breeze, turning the heads of all around him. With a steady gaze he glided towards the counter, but at the last moment turned on his heel and continued to the men’s room. Silence fell over the diners, most of whom had paused mid-bite to watch him as he passed, cheese stretching from their pizza slices to their gaping mouths. Moments later he emerged, looking noticeably relieved. Without a word he retraced his path and swept through the exit, never once looking over his shoulder.

I learned something last night: The best way to stun a pizza parlor is to dress to the nines, preferably wearing the finest tuxedo in town, and to act as if it is the most natural thing in the world to look as snazzy as possible.


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