Not My Father.
My cell phone trills from the depths of my work bag while I'm driving. I execute a quick, one-handed dive into the bag, retrieve the cell phone, and see that the caller's number is blocked. It must be my mother, or my friend Batman, or a customer service call.
(Or my father.)
"Hi there. What's up?"
"Not much. Just calling to see how work is going." He sounded very happy. Which is bizarre because, let's be honest, he's not the most chipper guy in the world.
"Work is good. I'm just getting back in the swing of things. On my way back from lunch now. How are you?"
"Good, good. Hey, it was great to see you guys last weekend."
Last weekend? He must mean two weekends ago. Chris and I were on our honeymoon last weekend. But whatever.
"Yeah, it was good to see everyone."
"Yeah. So did you give Amelia any of those pills?"
"Amelia? Who's Amelia?"
(Now he was silent.)
"This isn't Melissa, is it."
"No, and you're not my dad, are you?"
He laughed. I laughed.
"You sound just like my dad. And he calls me 'pumpkin.'" I felt stupid. "I feel stupid."
He laughed again.
"Me, too. Sorry about that. Thanks for the chat, though! Now I need to go find Melissa. Have a good day!"
"You too, Pumpkin."