Marla dozes for a few minutes.
When she opens her eyes she is afraid.
Where’s Mary? she asks.
She presses herself into her chair.
I don’t know where she is.
I hold up my hands in surrender.
I’m starved.
She points as though I’m the one
who’s starved her.
Well, I can make you something.
What do you want?
I want Mary. Who are you at all?
I want my Mary.
I’m Toffee.
Marla squints and smiles,
forgetting her growling stomach.
For a moment she looks young;
her face is bright, body bouncy.
Toffee! Oh, we should practise!
Practise what? I ask.
You’re making fun of me.
Either that, or you’ve had a bump on the head.