“You have a pineapple pizza?” I nod, annoyed with myself. “I do.” “You said pineapple on pizza is disgusting.” “It is.” “Then why do you have it?” “Because you said it was your favorite,” I admit. “And I want your favorite to be my favorite.” Because when the guy behind the counter asked me what I wanted, I said “pineapple” without thinking. Because my brain has been rewired to only think about one thing, apparently, and she’s sitting next to me in a tow truck looking a combination of bewildered and bemused.
