pizza
What on Earth are you doing?
You don't even know this woman and you're opening up your car door for her in the parking lot behind the gallery. She steps into the passenger seat with a wobbly gait, buckling herself into her seat. There's a perpetually unwell look on her face, a pout that doesn't seem to disappear. You're not sure you've ever met someone so openly sad in public before, but something about her tugs on your heartstrings. Her sad eyes and pretty face compel you.
Setting aside the fact that she's just straight up gorgeous, you're also concerned about the fact that she doesn't have anywhere to go. Also, strangely enough, you don't remember hearing her walk into the gallery or the restroom, but those details and any other minutiae are eclipsed by the heartbreaking look in her eyes as she watches you get into the car.
“Are you, uh… doing better?” You test the waters by checking on her and directing your gaze towards her. Maybe it's a bit inappropriate to ask someone who just broke down in front of you this question, but you still want to ask anyway.
“Hm?” Anya seems to realize that she's been staring at you and quickly averts her eyes. “Y– Yeah, I guess…”
“It's okay if you're not,” you gently tell her as you put your key into place, turning it and starting up the car. The sudden sound of the vehicle growling to life makes Anya jump and you wince apologetically. “Sorry. I know the car is kind of shitty.”
“N– No, it's okay,” Anya answers with a little shake of her head. “Just… haven't been in a car in a long time.”
You nod in false understanding. “Sure, that makes sense.”
False understanding, because you're not sure how someone from Russia would end up all the way here without getting in a car or two. Maybe she's only taken public transportation? Her mysterious presence is absolutely magnetizing. You want to study her.
As you begin to drive, Anya remains quiet, staring out the passenger seat window and occasionally looking over the dashboard. She keeps her arms wrapped around herself, her posture slouched due to what you can only imagine must be self esteem so low it's practically palpable. What has this woman been through before getting here?
You decide to prod a little. “Is there a reason you haven't been in a car recently?”
In your peripheral vision, you see her turn to face you, her hands fidgeting a little bit with the fabric of her uniform. “I think anything I tell you about my past will make me sound insane… It's not worth getting into.”
Hearing this makes you frown. You keep your eyes on the road, though, focused on getting to your destination. “I don't mind if you sound insane. I feel like everyone has their own brand of craziness.”
Anya lets out a dry, shallow huff—it's either a scoff or a laugh, but you're not too certain. “You really think so, huh? I mean…” She trails off, and that hint of humor is quick to dissipate when she continues. “I don't want to… deter you from the kindness you're showing me.”
You furrow your brows, not sure what to make of that as you keep your eyes on the road. “It wouldn't deter me. I'm honestly really curious.” A pause, and you add, “Plus, it would be nice to know a little about the woman I'm bringing back to my apartment.”
“I guess you have a point,” Anya mutters, her soft-spoken voice as melodic as it is heart wrenching, even with her hesitation. “It's just a bit of a… sensitive subject that I haven't opened up to many people about. It's nothing personal against you…”
“Oh,” you reply. “Sorry for pushing.”
Anya inhales shakily, stammering a bit. “N– No need to apologize. Maybe we could– could talk about it when you're not driving?”
Her hands continue to bunch into the fabric of her jumpsuit—an outfit you deemed to be a bit unusual during your first impression, but who are you to judge? Maybe she just came to work. You recognize that logo. You've heard of Pony Express before, heard they went under recently—or something to that effect—but you've never been super invested in the details of shipping companies.
“Oh, sure,” you answer. “We'll be there soon.”
When you pull into the parking area for your apartment complex, you waste no time in leading your new guest to your place of living.
“It's right here,” you tell her as you unlock the door. “Come on in. Make yourself comfortable.”
The apartment is far from luxurious—it's cozy and average, but made more lively by your own art decorating the walls and personal belongings lingering about. You've been trying to get your art into the local gallery for a while now, but so far you're mostly just a receptionist that your boss trusts enough to give the keys to the place. Beyond the artwork, you have all the basic furniture and amenities an apartment might have, some photos of friends and family, and various odds and ends that you'll totally clean up and put away eventually. Yeah, definitely. Just not today.
Hopefully it’s presentable enough for Anya to not totally judge you and dig into you for the clutter.
Anya briefly meets your gaze, speaking softly. “Oh. Um, sure…” As she steps into the apartment, she wrings her hands together, surveying the area ever so vigilantly. While she doesn’t say anything judgmental about how your apartment looks, she also doesn't seem like she's really capable of making herself comfortable, per se. Maybe the girl needs some encouragement.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty? Need anything in general?” You keep your tone hopeful and kind, because that seems like what she needs right now.
When asked such a question, Anya hesitates, but then she nods her head. “That might be nice. I can't remember the last time I had something to eat…”
What a concerning statement. She hasn't been in cars, hasn't eaten, and she's wearing a work uniform. All that considered, Anya looks pretty hygienic and well taken care of, so she must've bathed somewhere recently, right? Maybe she has a hotel…?
“Sure, I can get you something. Do you have any food allergies or dislikes I should keep in mind?”
Anya goes silent for a while, looking at you with fear and apprehension in her eyes. “I… I'd like to eat something fresh. N– Nothing expired, please.”
“Uh, of course.” You regard her with slightly widened eyes that you relax after a moment, stepping towards your kitchen that’s settled conveniently close to both the living room and the front door. “I won't give you anything expired.”
“...Um, I also have a shellfish allergy.”
You’ll tuck that information away in your brain, should it ever be needed. At least it’s a fairly common and avoidable allergy. Even if your kitchen isn’t stocked to the brim with seafood, you make mental efforts to remember the little things like that.
“No expired food or shellfish. Got it.” You give her a smile and a thumbs up, trying not to let the bizarre implications haunt you. Why would someone expect to be fed expired food? As a guest? You saunter over to the fridge, opening up the freezer and taking a look around. “How about frozen Pizza? I can pop it in the oven. It's not even close to expiring.”
Anya quietly shuffles into the kitchen, her sandals scuffing against the linoleum floor. You hold out the pizza box for her to look at and she cranes her neck a bit to soak in every visible detail etched onto the box’s exterior. “That sounds… really nice, actually. Th– Thank you, Y/N.”
She smiles weakly in a way that doesn't reach her eyes, as if perpetually scared of some impending doom that you don't even know about.
What a mysterious woman. Who hurt her?
“Great!” You chirp, stepping over to the oven to preheat it with a press of a few buttons. “I'll get that going, then. I'm sure it'll be good. This brand is always decent enough. And no shellfish.”
“Y– Yeah, that sounds… sounds great,” Anya replies, her tone wobbling like she's either forcing a laugh or trying not to cry. She's staring at the floor as she rubs her arm in what seems to be a self-soothing tic, her whole body as shaky as her uneven breath. Maybe some small talk would help.
“So, do you have a hotel nearby?”
Anya freezes, wincing as if in pain, and then shakes her head. “No, like I said earlier, I– I really don't have anywhere to go. I'm sorry. I know how pathetic and disappointing it sounds.”
You're quick to hold your hands up, halting whatever progress you had in preparing the frozen food. “No, no! It's okay! You don't sound pathetic or disappointing. Don't even sweat it. I just figured you might've meant that in a… broader sense.”
“I didn't,” Anya bitterly admits, taking a step backwards and sighing. “I… I can leave after this. I won't bother you anymore.”
You panic a little at her self deprecation and mention of leaving. That isn’t at all what you were trying to hint at or lead up to. It seems that Anya is a rather sensitive person; you make a note of that and choose your next words carefully. “Actually, I was hoping you would stay. I haven't even gotten to hear your wild crazy story yet.”
Her face falls even more, downtrodden as ever. “You might want me to leave once I tell you…”
“We'll put that to the test,” you say, “but really, Anya, it's okay. I live alone. Honestly, all I ever do is work and go back home and maybe make some art if I'm feeling fresh and creative enough when I'm not busy with my job. This is honestly the most interesting thing that's happened to me in a long time.”
Anya manages a shallow laugh at that, a little bewildered as her gaze meets yours once again. “Is it…? You're not just saying that to placate me?”
“Listen, if there's anything I love, it's having beautiful women talk to me. You could read me the label on this pizza box and I'd follow every word you say,” you tell her.
Anya's cheeks go from pale to a soft pink color as she stares back at you, a look of surprise unmistakable on her soft features. “O– Oh,” she murmurs, placing a hand on her cheek. “Well, that's– that's, um, sweet. I– I don't know what to say. Do you want me to read the label for you…?”
You let out a short laugh as you finally take the pizza out of its cardboard housing, preparing to bake the frozen meal. “Only if you care deeply about pizza ingredients.”
“I might like to know what it has for toppings, at least,” Anya tells you, brows furrowed. “What's on it?”
“Cheese and pepperoni. Just the basic option. Is that okay?”
“It's… more than okay. Thank you.” There’s a mere hint of a smile on Anya’s face as she stands in your kitchen, still fidgeting with her clothing. Small as it is, it’s enough to put you at ease. You can tell that she’s anxious, and your own anxiety is carefully kept at bay in spite of somewhat mirroring hers.
Eventually, the pizza is ready after a short baking time, and you take it out of the oven, setting it out to cool and then cutting it up into hopefully evenly distributed slices. Anya’s been quiet this whole time, seeming to be lost in thought as she quietly sits at the small table in your kitchen. When you set down a plate of two pizza slices in front of her, she visibly startles.
“Pardon me,” you say with an apologetic smile. “Your food is ready.”
“Thanks again,” she mutters again, wrapping her hands around the smooth, rounded edges of the plate and staring back at you with big, wide eyes. “You’re… really nice. I honestly don’t know what to make of it.”
It’s true that you don’t typically bring back strangers to your house; you haven’t been in a relationship in a good long while, and you’re not in the business of seeking out hot crying women to take home. This isn’t like that, though—it’s not sexual, but simply an extended offer to someone who clearly needs help. Exactly what kind of help it is that she’ll need, you’re not sure. Hopefully, it will be the kind of help that’s within your means of providing.
“Hey, it's no problem,” you tell her. “It’s just frozen pizza.”
“Y– Yeah, I guess, but…” Anya takes a deep breath, looking away and wincing. Her half-lidded and tired gaze averts from yours, lips turned downward as she lifts up one slice of pizza, examining it carefully. “It's not just the food. You've also brought me back to your apartment. I wish I had a realistic way to repay you…”
You walk over to get your own plate of pizza, sitting down adjacent to Anya at the little table “Don't even worry about it. I mean, if you really want to repay me, you can do so with stories.”
Anya is midway through chewing on a bite of pizza when you look back at her. She blinks owlishly at you, waiting to swallow her food before quietly asking, “Stories…?”
“Yeah, like life stories.”
“O– Oh. Well, that wouldn't be the worst thing someone asked me to give…” Anya nods slowly, her other hand tucked under her chin—notably the hand she wasn't using to eat pizza. “And I did tell you I'd talk about my past when you weren't driving…”
“Only if you're comfortable doing so,” you add on, beginning to eat.
“I… don't know how comfortable I'll be,” Anya admits, “but I'll tell you, in any case. Nobody else wanted to listen to me before, so this might be… nice. M– Maybe we can start small and work up to the, uhm, gruesome details?”
It's more than a little concerning that she's using the word gruesome, coupled with the fact that she didn’t have anyone listening to her woes, but maybe it's all just for dramatic effect. Gauging and feeling out the minutiae of social interactions with new people is a special kind of challenge, and you’re not sure what kind of situation Anya is in. You do know that you’re fascinated by her, however—her and her particular sense of fashion and wet, pathetic eyes.
It’s hard to imagine why anyone would want to hurt this woman. She doesn’t seem like the type of person who deserves to be at the hands of cruelty. You’re hoping that she’s just been exaggerating about how gruesome and painful her life has been.
You nod your head in agreement, more than willing to be a listening ear. “Sure,” you answer, “Take all the time you need.”
Anya flashes a weak hint of a smile, but it fades when she asks, “How much do you know about Pony Express?”