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Her brother worked at the pizzeria. He didn't know how to make pizzas, he just worked the counter. It was a sit-down pizzeria, but not the kind with waiters. He had hair that was blond enough to disappear and buzzed close to his skull, and his jeans were too big for his skinny frame and his sweatshirt had white paint stains. He painted houses over the summer. He was not an artist.
We ordered lots of pizzas over the summer for one thing or another, and when I went in to get our order he often was working. I volunteered to get the pizzas. I would hand him a green and gold twenty dollar bill with a crease down the middle, sliding it assertively across the counter. His eyes followed it all the way until it reached his hand.
He would punch it in on the cash register.
The drawer would open.
I got my change.
The pizza was always on the counter. We never spoke.