“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.