“That looks… amazing?” I utter, the words trembling from my lips.
“Unlike you, I’m no chef…” Anna replies, eye brows raised in mock. Her pan is full of a lumpy red substance, the sizzle sounding morphed and pained. Bits of pepper and tomato begin to ooze onto the counter, they run to escape their fate. My breath hitches, Anna lifting the wooden spoon to her lips.
“Oh my god,” she screams, spitting the liquid into the air. Silence. We both look up, eyes meeting in understanding.
“Pizza?” I ask, she already has her laptop open with the menu.