"Lizard Pizza" by Emma Atkins

Reprint. Originally published in Choatic Merge's last issue

The guy in the pizza shop is a conspiracy theorist who thinks giving women too many rights makes them violent offenders who’ll knock a man to the floor over a thin-crust pepperoni. Most days, you linger outside and wait for him to get sidetracked by a call, so his kid takes over the counter – he’s a quiet lad, who just sort of mumbles and passes your order along to his dad after he’s hung up. No fuss, then. You can place your order, perch on the corner stool and scroll through your phone until your pizza is ready without having to justify why you’re still masking up. He catches you sometimes, though, holding the cheese-stuffed crust hostage while he explains that more people die from colds than COVID.

That’s what’s happened tonight. He’s going on about how Big Pharma gave us all COVID to test their mind control vaccine chips. Fuck, you should’ve gotten chips. Your eyes drift to the five-star hygiene rating in the window. Is it a fake? He doesn’t look like the sort of guy who bothers to put a net over his beard. Then again, he doesn’t look like he thinks the internet is run by lizards, either, but with every conversation, he’s veering closer to lizard-shadow-government territory. That, at least, would be funny.

Other customers give you a wide berth. You’re guilty by association. Look at me, you want to say, I’ve got gummy bear earrings and Doc Martens. Does it look like I think women should stay at home? You don’t say anything. You imagine the hostage negotiator telling you not to enrage him. He’s liable to start shooting chicken nugget children.

It's hard to show active listening with half your face covered, so you resort to a series of exaggerated eyebrow raises. You can’t help but glance over his shoulder at the wall clock. It doesn’t help. Pizza is a fickle mistress. There’s no telling how long it’ll take to reach beautiful, oily perfection. You gave up a corner shop because the guy was a racist, but this… feels more bearable. As long as his views are only backwards concerning your demographics, you can put up with them for the ultimate slice. Yeah, yeah, the queers are converting dogs in their thousands. Yeah, of course, women do love their hormone salami. Give me the pizza, you paranoid Sphinx; your riddles have already been answered.

The box in hand feels like victory—payment for ear-service to his nonsensical bigotry. You’ve got to get out of there but can’t resist making a parting comment, now the pizza is secure: “Cheers, yeah, thanks. Shame about the moon landing, though. Hard to believe they had AI in the sixties, but there it is.”

The twist of his expression is warmer than the greasy box. Chew on that, pizza guy.

Emma Atkins is a poet, short story writer and novelist currently studying for her PhD at Middlesex University. Her poetry has been featured in the Stony Thursday Poetry Book, Amsterdam Quarterly, Stripes Magazine and others. Her flash fiction is forthcoming in Blood+Honey and The Argyle. Website: emmapaigeatkins.co.uk