Marla snickers and pours,
dribbling in the gin
then topping up with tonic.
The drink fizzes
in delight.
Ice, she says.
See if there’s any in the … the …
Freezer, I finish,
and go on a hunt.
I crack cubes into the glasses,
booze splashing back at me.
Marla looks as nervous as I feel
with the rim to her lips,
like someone who’s never touched a drop
despite mixing them up
like an expert,
the recall
in her hands
if not in her head.
We are being bad, she says.
I swig. We are.
We are being a bit bad.
She touches my hand.
If Mammy finds out she’ll
take a leather shoe to me.
If Daddy finds out he’ll peel me alive.
No one will ever know, Marla.
Clinking glasses,
we guzzle.