There wasn’t another house like Marjorie’s on the block. All the other houses had become more angular, there was more cement and raw wood. Marjorie had never fit in, not since the day she moved in forty years ago. She couldn’t even sign for her own mortgage back then, she had to have her brother do it. It was one of the last kind things he did before turning his back on the family. She’d never needed a man since. For the first few years the Portuguese families around her thought she was a kept woman. They didn’t let their kids near her.
There were more young families in the neighborhood again but Marjorie didn’t like having the kids around. They were all so loud. No one ever shut up, even when they were alone. They walked around with blue lights on the side of their heads, talking to the entire space around them. Shouting really, about Jessica doing something to Ciandre and why no one was talking to Caitlyn. They talked a lot about not talking, but there was always enough of them talking to make the air thick with gossip and chatter.
8 min @ the desk, 4.24.13; source of inspiration heard at Bloor St W and Dovercourt Road.
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