By Sarah C. Jimenez
Back to the pizza place. It was inevitable, I know. The place that last month my novia and I had a fit in and walked out of after not getting service—not getting a simple greeting after 10 minutes. We, the brown lesbianas in the corner, watched as the perfect white couple who came in long after us sipped their Peronis contently, while we were still hoping to maybe get waters. Our usual efficient and jovial server who, in the past, has always delivered pristine service, had been replaced with…well, no server at all. We’d been crushed that our favorite pizza place had not only blatantly offended us, but shattered our much anticipated pizza fantasies we’d toyed with all day.
The return to Oz started with a middle of the day phone-call while banging away at my computer like Schroeder at his piano, trying to meet a deadline: “Dinner tonight…. Tickets to Wicked…. Call in sick to work?” my girlfriend had pleaded. Giving up a $200 bar shift was not hard. Getting glammed-up for theater was not hard. Going to dinner back at the place where we’d last left with nothing but our stubborn dignity was.