PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson
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“Why do they ruin white pizza with big plops of ricotta?” Sherry asked. “If they spread it around . . .”
She gulped her Rioja, emptying half the glass. Her gaze slid from the pizza slice to the empty chair. Her eyes grew shiny.
“No news is good news, right?” she asked, a tear escaping as she tried on a half-hearted laugh.
“Certainly,” I said.
We nodded. Rick chugged his pils.
“Brian hates ricotta on pizza,” she said.
“With good reason,” Rick said, seizing a slice. The ricotta, speckled with blood red sauce, spilled to the plate.