a matter of identification

My sister dragged me into the Express at the mall -- I hate malls -- to look at clothes.

"What are you looking for?" asked a friendly saleswoman. "Who're you getting clothes for?"

Sako jerked her thumb at me.

"She doesn't like my wardrobe," I said.

"Aww," said the saleswoman. "Is this a mother-daughter shopping trip?"

My ego is bruised.

"No." Sako said.

"What?" I said.

Her apparent outrage sent the saleswoman skittering away like a nervous rabbit.

"Oh my God," Sako said. "Did she just call me your mother?"

"I'm pretty sure she was talking about me," I said.

The salesperson spent the rest of our stay in the store determinedly not making eye contact while we argued about it for the next half hour.

We were still arguing about it on the way out of the mall. "We should go back and ask her which one of us she thought was the mom, and which one was the daughter," Sako said.

I was tempted.