Back

I ease open

the back door.

Marla is jabbing a radio

with a screwdriver,

scowling.

I can’t get the bloody thing to work.

Why are there so many buttons?

Does it need batteries?

I can’t find any.

She glances up.

You aren’t Peggy.

I consider telling the truth,

though

only for a nanosecond.

I’m Toffee.

I form the fakest smile I can muster.

It’s not like I haven’t had a lot of practice

being a pretender:

I know how happiness should look

from the outside.

 

Marla tilts her head.

Don’t just stand there then.

Fix the bleedin’ thing.