“Pass the piss stash,” he said.
“The what?” She asked, while he laughed at his own immaturity. His laughter annoyed her, it was too late for such a high-pitched squeal.
“The pistachio gelato.” She looked at him with reproach. “Pleaseeeee.”
She opened the freezer and pulled out a clear plastic container made mint-green from the dessert inside. The label on the container read Sicilian Pistachio. She passed it to him.
Holding the container in one hand, he turned and grabbed a teaspoon from the drawer with the other. He leaned against the counter and twisted the cap off.
“I wonder if the pistachios are from Sicily or if Sicilian refers to the style of the preparation,” he said.
She left the kitchen without comment.