closed starter for @parkskylar where/when: doughfellas, dinnertime
Despite the many different species living in Port Leiry, pizza seems to be the universal language, on every tongue. Hunters and witches were, after all, only human. But Arleen swears in her six years here she's even seen and smelled vampires chowin' down at Doughfellas, if only to prove to their fledgling clan buddies that garlic ain't all what Hollywood made it out to be. And on nights when she's not in the mood for tourists, no doubt the smell of onions, pepperoni, olives, and bacon has her mouth watering like an absolute dog.
Means it's busy as hell at dinnertime, though, with the carryout counter piled high with greased cardboard. Arleen does her best to navigate the shop floor amid the others getting their pizza fix for the evening. When she gets to the counter, the no-doubt underpaid cashier distractedly hands her a box and she waits to check it 'til she's at the outside tables -- but already her wolf nose can tell something ain't right.
"Awh, damn. This one ain't mine," she muses, looking back over her shoulder. No chance she's tracking down the person who actually ordered this one, but that unmistakable scent hits her nose as a young woman exits the shop -- there's the veg, the meat, and the musty smell of a turned wolf beneath it all. Arleen sighs and hollers, "Hey. I think they gave you my pizza by mistake."
