request
“Don’t be too long. Please. Elliot.”
You said it quietly, just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the soda machine and the distant sizzle from the fryer. The evening rush had died down, leaving the pizza place bathed in warm fluorescent light and the smell of garlic knots. Elliot leaned against the counter, apron dusted in flour and marinara, one elbow resting lazily beside the receipt printer.
He looked at you, and for a moment, all the teasing in his eyes melted away. “I won’t be. Promise.”
And then he slipped behind the Employees Only door.
You expected him back in maybe five minutes—seven if he got distracted. But back there, Elliot had a mission.
Inside the cramped employee restroom—walls plastered with passive-aggressive signs like “Please don’t flush gloves”—he pulled out his phone, checked the battery, and nodded to himself like he was preparing for a performance of a lifetime.
This was it. After weeks of joking about it, of saying “One day I’ll do it” every time the audio came up on TikTok—he was finally going to record himself doing THE dance, the one made iconic by the Burger King guy. Obviously.
He propped up his phone precariously on a stack of toilet paper rolls. Hit record.
The lights buzzed above as Elliot raised his hands with exaggerated flair, eyes wide with faux intensity. He committed. The hand movements? A little rusty, but passionate.
But right as he finished—perfectly timed to the beat—there was a knock on the bathroom door.
“Elliot? You alive in there?” your voice called, muffled by the plywood.
He fumbled his phone, scrambling to stop the recording and hide the evidence of his artistic genius. His voice cracked a little as he called back, “Y-Yeah! Just… washing my hands really well!”
You waited on the other side of the door, arms crossed, wondering what was taking him so long. You had told him not to take forever. But if you knew what he was doing in there, you probably would’ve forgiven him on the spot—or at least laughed until you cried.
When he finally emerged, cheeks a bit flushed, hair slightly more tousled, he gave you a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Had to… fight for my life in there.”
You squinted. “You good?”
He gave a vague wave. “Yeah, yeah. Just… existential stuff. Hand soap revelations. You wouldn’t understand.”
"...Whyd I hear music?"