Nikki and Marlys

We were in an old four-plex where a crooked stairway led up to Marlys' apartment.

Marlys was a natural homemaker, with a seemingly effortless way with a kitchen. Her place was just off Franklin and Chicago avenues, a marginal neighborhood in the early 70s, not yet the addict-infested turf that it would become in the 80s. Nikki was a kid who lived in the next flat, she could smell the stickybuns that Marlys was baking. She just walked in, the door was open, I suspected that they’d played this game before. She ate in silence, Marlys was content with that, just to see this urchin eating her baking was communication enough. When Nikki finished she just said "bye" and ran out the door.

We resumed our conversation, about art and school and nothing at all.