The next morning
I give Ruby Frances
a handwritten note
of apology.
She reads it in front of me.
In front of me
she crumples it up
and tosses it into
the trash.
That afternoon
I use half my allowance
to buy Ruby Frances
a tube of
Wild Berry lipstick.
She gives it back.
“Not my color,”
she says.
I ask, “Would you
like me to wash your car?”
“No, thanks,” she sniffs.
“I always keep it clean.”
I have no more
tricks.