What’s your name? I ask.
She wags a finger accusingly,
then clouds over,
contemplating the question.
I’m Marla.
Yes.
I am Marla.
Now …
did you hear back from Connor
about the hurling on Saturday?
Are we going or not?
I can’t stand the way he messes us ’round.
Every bleedin’ week it’s the same old shite.
He’s a messer all right though. You know?
A pause. A glance at the window.
The weather’s turned, hasn’t it?
Felt like summer yesterday.
I was meaning to plant some mint.
Can you smell something burning
or is it just me?
Hailstones, like little glass beads,
patter against the window panes.
Marla hands me a cherry ChapStick
and points to my cheek.
Try that.
Can I have another hot cross bun? I ask.