Sponge
Margaret wondered if there was such a thing as a comatose tart. The shiny deck sheltered any number of glucose friends, with gelatine smiles and dusty toppings. She stared beside the chosen few, who mingled manners and expectancy. Wasn’t the cream wasn’t cream, but she got some to think about. The yum yums looked less than they were, so she bought five for a pound. It could have been the fudge, but that was duty, and the mellow locks were lighting the kaiser fraises with raspberries. A silver button caught on the zip of her purse as she reserved a pause for thanks. She wasn’t sure if she said it properly, because of the greed, the need and the yo yo.
Istanbul came in to see her go, wearing a plaster on his nose.
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