You’ve had a long, hard day. You’re tired. When the phone rings, you don’t even bother checking the Caller ID. You answer, and to your chagrin, it’s a telemarketer. You’re not really feeling up to arguing, so as their voice drones on and on about some service or product you don’t really care about, you let your brain drift into auto-pilot.
“Hmm …” you say vaguely. “Oh really?” you ask.
Before you know it, they’re asking you how long of a contract you’d prefer, and whether your last name is preceded by “Junior,” or some other ambiguous title. You are tempted to say something eccentric, such as “Her Majesty, Queen …,” but you resist the impulse. You decline their amazing deal. You decline again. After three minutes of frivolous pandering, and a third decline, the conversation gradually wraps up.
“Alright, well thank you so much for your time,” prattles the disappointed and slightly irritated voice on the other end. “You have a great evening.”
And that’s when it happens.
In a fit of lethargic absentmindedness, you reply with your auto-farewell, usually reserved for family members and very dear friends:
“Bye! I love you!” you declare before you realize what you’re saying.
For once, the voice on the other end is silent …
Your heart does a small somersault before falling into your stomach.
“Um …” says the voice. “What did you …?”
But it’s too late. You hang up the phone.
Hopefully, they’ll never call again.