Amy plopped down into the chair next to me. It had been one of those excruciating finals – 100 images, and we had to give the name of the piece, the artist, the medium, the year it was created, and where it was currently located. Ten of us crammed around a table at our favorite celebratory tavern, but my roommate was looking a bit worse for the wear.
“Are you okay?”
“I just need a drink.”
The waitress came. Amy weakly mumbled, “Margarita, per favore.” She looked grouchy, and I had learned better than to push her. If she wanted to talk, she’d talk.
A pizza finally arrived. It was a beautiful pizza margherita: golden brown crust, fresh, zesty tomato sauce, bubbling fresh mozzarella. My stomach growled.
“Who’s pizza is this?” Amy asked as our waitress set it down in front of her. I suddenly felt dread. Amy was already moody, so how should I break the news?
“Um…I think it’s yours.”
“I ordered a drink. A margarita.”
“I know you did, but……we’re in Italy.”
Her eyes showed signs of life as realization hit her.
“Oh. My. God.”
At least now she was laughing.