Ep 14: The Love of My Life

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to reality is, of course, coincidental.

“Hey, babe! What’s up?” Chris appeared on the phone screen, background blurred. His large and round head perched on a thick neck that seemed to merge directly into his shoulders, making him look like a human-sized panda. Close-cropped sandy hair revealed a receding hairline. The flesh on his cheeks carried the ruddy complexion of someone accustomed to beer, sunlight, or both.

“Hi, dear. You know I never answer ‘What’s up?’” Will replied in a flirtatious tone. As he spoke, the Sativa gummies began to kick in, overtaking the Adderall from two hours earlier and overpowering the Zoloft that had been on duty since morning.

“Why? What’s wrong with ‘What’s up?’”

“It’s the most meaningless question in the English language! You ask it, so technically I should answer, but it’s far too casual to deserve a serious response.” Will pointed a finger upward. “What’s up? The sky. The clouds. The stars. That’s what’s up. People with class would never say ‘What’s up?’ It’s a Redneck-Exclusive greeting.”

“Okay, then.” Chris laughed. “Guess I’m a New Jersey—born redneck.”

“Of course you’re an exception.” A fond smile tugged at the corner of Will’s mouth. “You’re the finest redneck New Jersey has ever produced.” Then he asked, “How are the Canary Islands?”

“It’s fantastic. So warm and sunny here! I’m literally becoming a redneck.” Chris tilted the phone to show the sunburn spreading across his back before asking, “How’s the weather in New York?”

“You know better than I do: sunny as heaven, cold as hell.” Will pursed his lips. “In a New York winter, you can have sunshine or warmth, but never both.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, babe! I wish you could be here with me. I miss you so much.” Chris smiled.

“I wish I could, too, but... you know...” Will shrugged. “With a Chinese passport, I need a visa almost everywhere I go—unless I'm heading to Cuba, or Iran, or North Korea… Wait,” he said, raising a finger. “Actually, scratch North Korea. Kim stopped letting Chinese visitors in visa-free after the pandemic.”

“You’ll get a U.S. passport,” Chris said with a grin, “as long as you marry a citizen, like me...”

“Was that a proposal?” Will leaned closer to the screen. Suddenly, a gust of cold wind slipped down his collar, and he instinctively pulled his wool coat tighter around his body.

“Haha, I ain’t doing nothin’...” Chris said, widening his eyes in mock innocence.

Will looked genuinely offended. “You know bad grammar drives me crazy. I have PTSD from years of English exams!”

“Got ya!” Chris said with a triumphant grin. Then he snapped his fingers. “Right! Your birthday was around this time, wasn’t it? Got any plans?”

“Oh, thank you, dear.” Will smiled. “I stopped celebrating birthdays years ago. That way, I can always tell people I’m twenty-two.” He spread his hands dramatically. “Time is an illusion. So is age.”

“Then happy twenty-second birthday!” Chris let out a laugh. “We’ll celebrate somehow...” As he spoke, a young man walked behind him, briefly tearing a slit in the blurred virtual background. Through it flashed a glimpse of golden sand, blue sky, and the Atlantic sunset beyond before the image sealed itself again.

“Who’s that?” Will asked.

“Oh, that’s... my cousin.” Chris hesitated for a fraction of a second. “He’s driving me to the airport tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Will narrowed his eyes. “But why does your cousin look Asian?”

“Cuz we are Italians—the Chinese of Europe.” Chris attempted to brush it off.

“What?” Will shot back. “You used to tell me Europeans didn’t think Chinese people were cool.”

“They think Chinese people are cool now.” Chris grinned. “These days, people hear you’re Chinese and start marveling at how advanced China has become. But when I tell them I’m American? Half the time I get smirks instead of respect.”

“What about the other half?” Will asked.

“The other half of the time, they mimic the American president’s voice and tell me to ‘Go back to your own country!’ Honestly, if anyone deserves a medal from Beijing, it’s President Downit. He single-handedly boosted China’s image by lowering America’s. Comparison does the rest—”

“Okay, okay, dear. Let’s go with that.” Will cut him off, ending the increasingly elaborate explanation before it could go any further. “When are you coming back?”

“I’ll be back Monday night.” Chris said. “Maybe I can see you on Wednesday?”

“For sure!” Will replied, a smile spreading across his face as he pulled open the door of the pizzeria. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“You too, honey. Mwah.” Chris puckered his lips and blew a kiss before the screen went dark.

Stepping in, Will found only a handful of customers scattered among the booths. The pizza lady rested her elbows on the counter, eyes fixed on him, ready to take the order.

Will’s gaze swept across the large metal trays behind the glass, automatically skipping past every vegan option. I didn’t evolve all the way to human just to eat vegetables.

He wasn't sure whether it was him or the Sativa talking.

Cheese or Margherita? Too basic.

Pepperoni, Meat Lovers, Buffalo Chicken? Too ordinary.

Anything interesting?

Fig & Prosciutto caught his eye. Jammy figs, tangy Gorgonzola, salty prosciutto, peppery arugula, finished with a drizzle of balsamic onions—like an Impressionist painting, as though someone had captured the last colors of summer and baked them onto a crust. It’s not pizza. It’s art!

“Alright,” he said. “Fig it is.”

One slice was never enough. What should the second be?

Pulled Pork Pizza. A new menu item.

“How does it look?” 

The pizza lady pointed toward the lower shelf of the display case: a pie topped with guanciale, shredded pork, mozzarella, red peppers, jalapeños, and cilantro over barbecue sauce. Staring at it, one could almost picture a rustic farmhouse basking beneath the Tuscan sun. 

“Yes, please.”

A few taps later, the inevitable tipping screen appeared on the payment terminal—the great American ritual.

He remembered when he first came to this country, older students told him 15 percent was enough at restaurants, while haircuts and cab rides only called for a token tip. Years later, 20 percent had become the minimum. Many restaurants even added a “Tip” line on top of a service fee. Especially after the pandemic, tipping spread like a virus. Haircuts, taxis, coffee, takeout, delivery—wherever there was a payment screen, there was a prompt for a tip. Some Americans even took pride in indulging this greed, passing off this warped system of transactions as “American tradition.” At this rate, it won't be long before the IRS adds a “Tip” line to tax returns. After all, IRS agents provide a service too, don't they? And who can guarantee the government pays them a living wage?

Will rolled his eyes inwardly. Keeping his expression 100% neutral, he scrolled all the way to the bottom of the screen. 

—No “No Tip” button. 

Of course not. That would have made things too easy. 

The closest option was “Other,” which opened a blank field waiting for him to enter an amount. 

The pizza lady stood right in front of him, watching.

Without the slightest hesitation, Will typed “$0.00” and unapologetically tapped his phone against the card reader.

When he found a booth and sat down, the Sativa had fully taken hold of his mind. Time itself seemed to loosen. A second stretched outward, unfolding into something vast. A minute could feel like an afternoon. Every moment seemed to linger for a century long. He could feel everything: The hum of the refrigerator behind the counter. The scrape of a chair across tile. The warmth rising from the pizza boxes. The faint sting of winter air still trapped in his coat. The loud clack as the pizza lady slammed the cash drawer shut...

Chris always said, “America’s tipping culture is a rotten social habit—every bit as toxic, unnecessary, and foul as as women's foot-binding in imperial China or the tight-laced corsets of Victorian Europe. It serves no purpose except to make the experience unpleasant.” His position was clear: just put the real price on the menu, and charge exactly what’s written, like other countries on Earth. Every civilized American has a duty to boycott this ridiculous, coercive, out-of-control custom and leave transactions easy, clean-cut, and stress-free. “Make America Gratuity-less Again!”

Always so sharp. So fearless. Offensive if necessary.

God, how much he enjoyed Chris. They shared the same impatience, the same irreverence, and the same refusal to tolerate nonsense.

Whenever some slow-driving grandma held traffic hostage, Chris would lean on the horn while Will stuck his middle finger out the window. “If you’re going to drive slow as fuck, get out of the left lane!”

When a waiter seated them at a cramped table by the bathroom instead of in a decent booth, Will would spend the rest of the meal visibly annoyed, while Chris would leave only a one-dollar tip, along with a note: “This is still too much for a condescending prick. You’re welcome!”

Chris had a thing for Asians. Chinese in particular. His last boyfriend was Chinese. His last, last boyfriend was Chinese. And his last, last, last boyfriend was, still, Chinese. According to Chris himself: “If I’m dating an Asian, why would I choose someone from the vassal states when I can date one directly from the Central Empire?”

Will had no objection whatsoever to Chris’s “yellow fever,” as he was hardly in a position to judge: he adored white men.

Anglo-Saxons. Germans. Gauls. Celts. Romans. He found them all irresistibly beautiful. When he studied European history in college, the only thought occupying his horny mind was: Why are all these magnificently handsome white men so determined to kill one another? He read about wars, invasions, massacres, crusades, dynastic feuds, and centuries of bloodshed, then arrived at the same conclusion every time: “If somebody had promoted gay culture a little more aggressively, Europeans might have spent the last two thousand years bathing in peace, beauty, and happy Greek-style sex, instead of repeatedly slaughtering each other. Christianity should really go to the hell it invented!”

Will liked almost everything about Chris. Almost everything. Except sex. He couldn’t lie about that.

As endearing as Chris was in his own oversized-panda way, something inside Will recoiled whenever the relationship turned physical. Every time Chris’s considerable bulk came crashing toward him, Will entertained the same fantasy: he would roll neatly out of the way, the mattress split open like a trapdoor, and Chris would vanish into a bottomless abyss, falling forever into the darkness below.

Unfortunately, rolling out of the way was not an option. If he wanted the Freedom from Fear—fear of employers, fear of visa deadlines, fear of Washington’s ever-changing immigration policies—he needed to capture a living, breathing American citizen and convince him to sign a marriage certificate. ASAP.

In a big city like New York, finding a person for some fun was easy, but finding one to get married was not. In fact, it was astonishingly difficult. Young people treated commitment like an unpleasant tax to be postponed. Every eligible bachelor was busy climbing ladders, switching jobs, moving apartments, or chasing new mates. Nobody intended to settle down, until the first unmistakable signs of aging kicked in, which usually happened around thirty-five.

Luckily, Will had already snared Chris. The man checked every box: American citizen, stable job, past thirty-five yet not too old—a criterion on which he was unwilling to compromise. To an immigrant like Will, Chris was less the love of his life than a fast track to a green card.

Which was why he found Chris’s secrecy almost unnecessary. If Chris wanted the occasional fling behind his back, just go ahead and enjoy. As long as the larger arrangement remained intact, Will preferred not to know. Don’t Ask. Don’t Tell!

Suddenly, the lady's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. With his pizza fresh from the oven, he settled back into the booth and immediately grabbed a slice, taking an enormous bite. Any pizza abandoned long enough for the cheese to cool and stiffen was, in his view, an act of disrespect toward one of humanity’s greatest culinary achievements.

End of Episode

Albert Aspen’s work is published simultaneously on this site and on his Substack page. If you prefer reading on Substack, please visit: Who is Albert Aspen?

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