Screaming and scratching at the bathroom mirror
with a purple lipstick,
lines and frantic scribbles.
No! No! Not me. Who? NO!
No! Go away! Go AWAY!
I wrap Marla in my arms,
drag her on to the landing.
What’s wrong?
Her whole body is shivering.
Hands shaking.
Someone was in there.
Someone not me was in there.
An old lady.
Not me.
Get away!
No.
Jesus.
Call Mammy and tell her.
No one’s here except me, Marla.
I take the lipstick from her hand
and without knowing why,
draw a thick moustache above my top lip.
Was it Madame Croissant?
Her breathing slows. I let go.
You’re a silly fecker.
And proud of it, I tell her,
rubbing the moustache with my fingertips.
Who was in there? she whispers.
Who was that woman?
We should go.
She looked shocking.
She’s gone, I say.
Shall we dance?
Roger expects us to practise.
We need to be good.
Don’t want Moira beating us.
Scrubber.
Moira, I mean.
Not you.
You’re dead classy.