Marla
grooves and swivels,
jiggles and jives,
not afraid of the high tempo
or the possibility she could trip and
knock herself against the stone mantelpiece.
Come on, Toff, keep up!
Roger said we need to be ready.
I hear Moira’s ready. And Frances.
Those bitches.
Move, Toffee!
She drags me by the arm to join her,
hip dipping one way, then the other,
music roaring around the room
from the record player.
And once the song ends,
needle in a little crane
lifting itself off the spinning record,
she starts the whole thing over.