The tip jar is empty. Barren. Erin frowns. This pizzeria is fairly popular, even now, at half past twelve on a Monday night, the restaurant is bustling. She would slip a five dollar bill in on the way out.
A crowd of men surround her. Undoubtedly uncomfortable, she slightly sways from side to side hoping her order is almost ready. She looks briefly over at Holtz who is saving them a seat near the back of the parlor, and then she peeks over the counter, glad to see what she assumes is their slices being prepared.
She thanks the cashier as he hands over her order and then briskly retreats to her table.
Holtz had kissed her as they walked into the restaurant, earning them The Look, as Erin has labeled it. A mixture between confusion and interest and reproval. Erin is not embarrassed, hardly is she worried about what people think of her relationship (which is a definite feat for her, since she is worried about everything else in the world) but getting used to that look? Not easy.
“People are so weird,” Erin mumbles, sitting down as she hands her girlfriend her slice. Maybe she's simply paranoid, imagining the quick glances and the wide eyes.
“Did they say something to you?” Holtz asks, already mid chew.
“Oh, no,” Erin says, half swooning, half alert over Holtz’s immediate response. She wonders if Holtz has often had to deal with this kind of thing before. Erin hasn't, doesn't know how to.
Holtz nods, leaning back in her chair. Pizza perfectly balanced on her fingertips she asks, “How weird am I?”
“The weirdest,” Erin whispers, “but endearingly weird. They are scary weird.”
Holtz ardently laughs, earning them a few incredulous looks, but Erin can’t seem to worry when her girlfriend’s laugh reminds her of a piece Chopin composed.
They eat in an easy silence, save for the sound of commotion within the restaurant. Erin finds it interesting that at midnight the streets are still alive. She distinctly remembers her little hometown of Battle Creek, Michigan closing at 6:30 P.M. 7, on weekends. What a change of pace New York City has given her over the years.
Erin looks up from her pizza crust and notices that Holtz has pepperoni grease on her chin and a stoic look upon her face. She’s about to make a joke, she can't fully remember how it goes, but it's good, it’s funny, but dammit the phrasing isn't coming to her.
Scrapping the joke, Erin leans forward, wondering why Holtz’s facial expression turned hard.
“What's wrong?”
“Erin.”
“Holtz.”
“Do not move.”
“Why?”
Suddenly, Holtz is kissing her. Merely a moment. All too quickly she's pulling away, transferring pizza grease onto Erin’s lips. She smiles, her eyes slightly lidded. A hum leaves her; words unable to disclose how she adores Holtz. And she doesn't care, can't care, what the people scattered around the pizza parlor may think of them, not when she is this content.
“C’mon, dreamy, you're gettin’ sleepy,” Holtz says, followed by, “hey, that sorta rhymed!” and Erin realizes how stagnant she has been rendered. Thinking, wondering how a person as Jillian Holtzmann cares for a person as Erin Gilbert. They leave a tip, Erin awkwardly thanking the cashier, and head for the street.
The air is thick, though, Erin isn't certain with what exactly. It's not cold out, but there's a bite to the breeze. She’s about to wrap her arms around herself when Holtz grabs her hand, intertwines their fingers, and smiles reassuringly at her. At that, Erin decides that the air around them could be filled with word venom and she wouldn't mind, not right now anyway.