Marla and I are giggling,
clinging to one another,
swaying, spinning to
Beyoncé singing out
from the radio’s tinny speakers.
Now like this! Like this! I tell her.
I hold one hand aloft and twirl it
like any single lady would,
and Marla copies the choreography –
hands in the air,
hands on hips,
fists punching forward,
hair flicked back.
It’s too quick. She is breathless,
stepping up to the mantelpiece and
pouring more gin into her glass.
Show me again!
I fall to my knees laughing.
Her Beyoncé is appalling.
But she is beautiful.