I’m an author--one that's as likely to write poetry as pornography. And people said I'd never get to use my Bachelor's in English. For me, writing is therapeutic: a complicated form of self-talk. That, more than any other reason, is why I do it full-time. Also, I love you.

Love Thy Enemy

Leta LaVelle

The Tsars of Za: Russian Pizza Done Right (TM) had competed with Zippy's House of Za, the place one block over, since Vasily had opened Tsars in 2003. Vasily calls in take-out orders from Zippy’s three times a week and never, ever picks them up. Anything to cut into their bottom line. By the end of that first month, they’ve blocked his number, so he cycles through his employees' cell phones, taking care to call with no real pattern. He's got Patty's, his second least-favorite hostess, iPhone wedged between his ear and shoulder, flipping through his competitor's extensive paper menu, making his voice sound much lower than usual as he says, "Yes, I'd like your red wine rosemary steak"--the most expensive thing on the menu--"with a side of roasted asparagus and cheesy garlic bread."

After he confirms the pick-up time for 2:30PM, Patty takes her bedazzled pink phone back and shoves it into her apron, saying, “Don’t you ever wonder what their food actually tastes like?”

“Hmph,” Vasily says and goes right back to bundling forks and knives into napkins. It is an empty, meditative thing. By the time he’s filled an entire basket, it’s 4PM—the dead hour before they open again at 5. He realizes with a hungry jolt that every restaurant from here to 31st Street is closed until 5, too.

So he pulls on his coat, telling Patty to sweep the corners again and that he’ll be back before they reopen. Then he meanders down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets as he keeps his eyes peeled for a hot dog stand. He’d even settle for a hot pretzel, at this point. He zigzags all over the block, checking to see if any of the Mexican places have changed their business hours, his stomach getting increasingly upset with him. That’s when he sees Zippy’s neon-bright sign flashing red and yellow across the street.

The pull of that sign was incredible--it was like being drugged or hypnotized. One minute he was staring at their ugly red awning, and the next he was standing in front of the host’s stand, the freckled boy behind it telling him: “Welcome to the House of Za! How many will there be in your party today?”

“I... I think I’m here to pick up a steak,” Vasily says.

“Oh wow. We weren’t sure you were coming!” the kid tells him before disappearing into the back. He returns with a styrofoam box, saying, "That'll be $24.39," as he took Vasily’s card.

Vasily wanders out of Zippy’s, the box not even a little bit warm in his hands. He walks back to Tsars, shrugs off his coat, and plucks a bundle of silverware off the top of the pile. He sits down at one his own tables for the first time all day and unfurls the fork and knife. He opens the box. He takes a bite.

It's delicious.

Suzanne's