Marla’s house must have been painted white
some time ago,
though now it looks grey
from weather-wear
and lack of care.
She is sitting on the back step,
staring at a packet of cigarettes.
Are these yours? she asks.
I shake my head.
Maybe they’re Mary’s.
Find a lighter.
Or you could use the grill.
I pull out the chocolate bar.
How about this instead?
Is it all for me?
You have to share, I scold.
Fair enough.
She swaps cigarettes for chocolate,
yumming so loudly
you’d think we were eating
in a five-star restaurant.
I’m glad you got milk chocolate.
The dark stuff tastes like Calpol.
Yeah. Why would anyone eat it?
Trying to be posh.
Can you be a chocolate snob?
You can be any sort of snob at all.
That’s how the la-di-das sniff us out –
by noticing what we wear and buy and eat and everything.
A snob would know you didn’t belong in two seconds flat,
she says.
I suppose so.
I think of how Lucy could tell
by studying my shoelaces
that I don’t belong in her world.
Marla has chocolate in her eyebrow.
I rub it away with my thumb.
Shall we have supper?
She looks up at the sky.
But it isn’t bedtime.
That wouldn’t make sense.
No, I say. No, it wouldn’t.
So we have dinner instead.
Like common people.