“Hi, Maga. It’s Abby.”
“Hi, Abby dear.”
“How are you?”
“Well, I’m here.”
“That’s enough for me!”
“What did you do today?”
“Let’s see. It was a very busy work day, and then I talked with a friend as it’s her birthday.”
“How old is he?”
“She is 39.”
“Your son?!”
I burst out laughing. “No, no. My friend. I don’t have a son.”
“How could you have a son that age?”
“I don’t have a son that age or any age.”
“Whose birthday was it?”
“My friend. Girl friend. From college. School. Friend.” I threw a whole bunch of words out there to see what would stick.
“What day is today?” Maga said.
“Tuesday.”
“Oh, yes. The day you usually call.”
“I’m nothing if not consistent,” I said.
“No, I think not.”
I took a moment to puzzle it out and came to zero conclusions, so decided it was best to switch things up. “Are you watching TV?”
“Yes.”
I was about to ask a follow-up question when she continued speaking. “This talented love man. I don’t know who he is.”
“Nor I.” Nor I, dear reader, as he’s woefully absent from my life.
“This crazy man. He has a piece of toast. He’s wearing it.”
“Toast?”
“T-O-A-S-T.” Maga spelled for me.
“And he’s wearing it?”
“Yes. It’s a crazy program.”
“Sounds like it.”
“You’re such a dear relative to call. Thank you.”
And just like that, I was dismissed. I guess I wasn’t surprised, really, because a talented love man wearing toast? I’d rather pay attention to that too.
Abigail Mumford 