“How do I look?”, she asks turning around slowly.

“Great!”, I say.

“Really?”, she squeals, her invisible ponytails bouncing with excitement.

“Sure!”, I say and go back to stalking unaware people.

“Wait just a minute”, she says. “What do you mean by ‘sure'”?

“Huh?”, I huh.

“How can you be so indifferent?” she says taking out her Colt 45.

“What the fuck?” I say ducking. “You look perfect!”

“Awwww” she says and kisses me. “Thank you for being honest.”

Next day, she asks me again.

“How do I look?”, she asks, planting a landmine.

“Honestly?”, I tread slow.

“Of course!”, she smiles deceptively.

“I really love the skirt. But I don’t think that top is going with it”, I say confidently, ever-the-woman’s fashion-critic.

“Why?” she snaps back, turning a shade darker than her top. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it!”, I say bandaging my wounded leg that no doubt will develop gangrene.

“No”, she persists throwing a grenade. “Tell me. You seem to know everything about fashion. Tell me, what should I wear?”

“Another top?”, I venture out on open sea.

“Son of a bitch”, she says changing out of everything.

“Hey”, I say, suddenly fiercely protective about my mother.

“How is this?” she asks what seems like a year and an avalanche in my bedroom later.

“Great”, I say quickly, keeping it short, keeping it real.

“Look up from the laptop and see it, before you answer”, hawk-eye says.

“Great!” I say, adding an extra exclamation at the end to confirm what I said earlier.

“The skirt looks okay, right?”, she asks spinning around.

“Of course!”, I lie.

“Are you lying to me?”, she asks woman-intuition in fantastic working order.

“Why would I lie to you?”, I ask loosening my wedding ring.

“To get out of the conversation”, she says opening her cupboard.

“What rubbish” I say, getting into the loo.