I eat a lot of pizza. In the past week, I’ve had gluten-free pizza, free pizza, leftover free pizza, and several slices of Schmizza.
Pizza Schmizza is downtown, just a quick bus ride across the river from my office building. Of course, there are lots and lots of places downtown to eat, but for some reason, when I go downtown, my first choice is Schmizza. Lots of variety, I can get a slice plus a salad for cheap (I need veggies, too), and… well, I’m a regular there. They know me by name and by face. You shouldn’t underestimate the value of recognition.
And there’s a girl there I like to chat with. I’d like to, I mean, except that I rarely get to. She’s tall, she has white-girl dreads, and she dresses kind of granola, but she seems bright, energetic, and positive.
Oh, and she calls me “doll”.
“Thanks, doll, that’ll be right out,” she’ll say after I place my order. “Sign right there, doll,” as she passes me the debit card receipt and a pen. “Anything else, doll?” she’ll ask when she knows that I just ordered my usual Combo #2.
It was cute. I liked it. I didn’t read anything more into it beyond what it was – a friendly verbal tic for a regular customer.
And then I heard her call someone else “doll”. What? That was my nickname!