"Was burnt," I said, taking his Pendleton. "Past tense. My special recipe for spaghetti sauce that I slaved over for hours. Some monster turned the burner on too high. It was horrible. The sauce didn't stand a chance."
"What are we going to eat? I'm starving."
I looked down at Steve's hands. I could see Keanu's sexy/sleepy/stupid face on the front of one of the video boxes he held.
"Don't fret," I said. "I ordered pizza. They should be here any minute."
"Good move," he said and walked around the living room, admiring the full bookcases. "Have you read all of these?"
"Only about half, I'm afraid."
He flashed a grin at me. "Are the others for show?"
I laughed sheepishly. I always end up buying more books than I can read."
The pizza arrived an hour and a half later, but only because I called to find out where it was.
When we opened it, the toppings were glued to the roof of the pizza box, the pizza was cold and the crust hard as a rock.
I chipped a tooth on it.
The movies were the best part of the evening.
At least, "Sister, My Sister" was.
It was full of all the things I love in a movie: Beautiful people with British accents playing French people, tragic heroines who happen to be incestuous lesbians and bad guys who get their comeuppance with kitchen cutlery.
Steve liked "Johnny Mnemonic" more than I did. The acting was hideous! And what was that doll-face Keanu thinking when he got that haircut? The story was interesting but the movie's so bad, I suspect the CIA financed it to use as a torture technique in small Third World countries.
I fell asleep watching it.
