Of all the men I have loved and lost, there is one to whom I’m forever indebted. Between his charm, charity and coy shrug that always follows my expressions of gratitude, I cannot fathom a more suitable suitor.  

Here’s looking at you, Mr. Delivery Man — my one true love.

It’s strange to feel you’ve cracked the code that’s crippled the curious and puzzled poets for lifetimes, centuries, rainy afternoons, etc. Since the first savages of this Earth subsisted on a Paleo diet before peak trendiness, some force has driven us heathens together — science says it’s for procreation, I say it’s for the euphoria of seeing him standing there, deadpanned gaze, logo-bearing hat, cardboard box in hand.

Though I’m certain that ours is the love of a lifetime, it wasn’t always that of fast-food fairytale. Before college, friends spoke highly of him, yet he and I seldom crossed paths. I only called when I pined for pepperoni, when I ached to have my arteries clogged. But as college began last fall and the temperatures plummeted the following winter, I needed him more than ever.

And now, here he is, knocking at my door.

His eccentricity never ceases to amaze me. Unlike the other boys who ask their dads how to shop for women, he’s known all along. His insight is remarkable — all too often, there he is, static and slouched, holding the universe together — with extra cheese, no less.

And, though his actions speak louder than his words, he knows what to say when I’m at my worst.

“Sign here, please,” he says. Cue the dopamine.

When I just can’t bear the outside world or brave the elements, he does the opposite. Just last week, he endured the snow and the wind and the deathly cold — by bike, by bike — all to bring me fried rice. I know, right, he’s a moment maker! How lucky am I to have found The One so young? And still in my pajamas!

He keeps our love alive even through the most trying of times. During finals week, when I want nothing more than a quick exchange of cash for carbs, he’s there to balance my emotions with his emotionlessness.

“Here’s your sandwich,” he says, blank as ever, passing the torch. He gives, I take. I smile, he frowns. It’s perfect.

He’s the trustiest of steeds and the only phone call I look forward to. Unlike routine check-ins with mom, he doesn’t ask the hard questions. With him, it’s never about my GPA, just my needs. He’s there to ease the troubles and so graciously take orders.

When I overanalyze our interactions, I realize the one-sidedness of our relationship. I put in zero effort, but for some reason he keeps coming back for more — with more food. I literally just call his name — whatever his name is that day — and he’s there in 45 minutes or less. God, he’s so agreeable.

So yeah, my only intimacies are accidental — the last time a guy touched me was when Mr. Delivery Man handed over the goods and grazed my hand. I tipped big.

My midnight booty call isn’t a booty call at all — it’s a speed dial to Pizza House. And when my hotline blings, bae doesn’t arrive, a pizza does. I know what you’re thinking, it’s too good to be true. But it’s not all serotonin and Szechuan chicken.

As with any great love, the doubt seeps in. I can’t see us working out long term. Between my neediness and his near-sickening devotion, natural selection will take us out soon enough (and take-out will prevail). But for now, when my relatives ask about the boys in my life, I reply honestly. Yes, Aunt Barb, there is a man in my life. And unlike your ex-husband, he consistently delivers.  

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