VV: Mom, I’m sick.
MOM: I’m sorry. At least it’s on the weekend.
VV: No, wrong answer! It’s “I’m so sorry that this happened when you were at a bookstore, about to hear one of your favorite authors read from a book you adore. That’s terrible!”
MOM: Oh, OK. Sorry.
VV: I’m so disappointed. And I’m sick. I had to leave, feeling all pale and woozy-like, get into my car, close my eyes for a few seconds to get the dots to go away and then drive myself home. While he was reading.
MOM: Well, rest up and take it easy tonight.
VV: Still not the right answer. And I brought a book to get signed and everything. It did not get signed. There was no “To Victoria, my muse” inscription penned onto a page of the book. How great would it be to have someone write that? It’s fabulous. Not true, but hey! It reads well!
MOM: You’ll get it signed another time.
VV: You’re not picking up on how this is supposed to work, are you?
MOM: Just rest tonight and you’ll be fine.
VV: Mom, I’m not feeling well and I’m all by myself. This is where the maternal instinct kicks in, remember?
MOM: Oh, your roommates aren’t there?
VV: No.
MOM: Well, it’ll be nice and quiet for you. Go to sleep early.
VV: You have a gift, Mother. Truly. I’m remarkably cured.
MOM: Call me tomorrow. I love you.
VV: Harumph. And love. And stuff. Bye.