She asked me to go have pizza with strangers.
Not strangers to her, of course.
But strangers to me.
I watched as they all hurried past my desk,
eager for a greasy slice of meat-covered dough.
18 pizzas, 60 strangers, satisfied greed.
Caskets of wine, packs of beer,
fat men drinking to their hearts' (and bellies') content.
The sound of laughter and voices worn out by the long day,
the clanking of glass bottles as they toast to the end of another week,
the giggling of the middle-aged females looking to get some
before they wither away into their own wrinkles.
I don't belong here with these nonsensical corporate clones.
I will not have pizza with your strangers.