Marla stirs a bowl of muesli,
tastes it, spits.
That’s pure sawdust.
I’m not eating that.
Have we any cake?
I could murder a Battenberg.
I’ll ask Mary to pick one
up on her way over.
It’s not meant to be dry, I tell her.
I do not remind her Mary will
never visit again.
What would be the point
in making her relive that pain?
She reaches for the carton of apple juice
and pours.
I wait for the reaction,
and when it is a sneaking smile,
leave her to enjoy her cereal.