Returning to the condominium, I purposefully don’t look at the concierge, not wanting to interact. After climbing the stairs, I listen at the door to make sure no one is in the hall before stepping out. Closing Marinek’s door behind me, I let a feeling of relief push the tension from my shoulders. I lock the door and check it.

Satisfied, I drop my bag onto the kitchen counter and begin unpacking my wares. Midway through preparing my ingredients, the alarm on my bracelet goes off alerting me that night will soon fall. I pause my work to thank the past Day for its service and its grace. I welcome the new day and ask for its protection. I want to keep the small existence I’ve found for myself here.

Turning back to the ingredients spread over the cooktop, I push away my worries and focus on the feeling of water on my hands, of the knife splitting the vegetables. I lose myself in cooking porridge.

At some point, Marinek returns. I freeze when I hear the lock turn but stop myself from ducking below the counter. They smile and give a small wave before leaning down to untie their boots. My hand unclenches from the knife I’m holding and I muster a smile in return.

Marinek looks at me for a few seconds. “Don’t feel like talking?”

I shake my head.

Marinek nods and comes to sit on one of the stools by the counter. She watches me cook. When it seems like I’m almost done, they grab some bowls and spoons. I ladle the porridge into the bowls and sprinkle some crushed seaweed on top. Placing both bowls on the counter, I take a seat next to Marinek.

“It’s abalone porridge,” I explain.

“Thank you for dinner.” She takes a small spoonful and blows on it gently. As they taste the soup, a smile spreads. “It’s great!”

I smile back, a little embarrassed. “You showed me foods that were important to you last night, so I thought I’d do the same.”

Her grin grows impossibly larger. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

I shrug and look down into my bowl. The porridge turned out not half bad, I decide.

We finish eating in silence. I get the impression Marinek is willing to leave conversation decisions in my corner and won’t say anything without me initiating. My gratitude is a heaviness dragging down my heart.

When we’re almost done eating, I ask: “How was your day?”

“Are you just asking to be polite?”

“No.”

“To make small talk?”

“Maybe.”

“My day was fine. Pretty standard fare—got paid for standing around and looking mean.”

I take the invitation to laugh and worry it sounds forced.

“What about yourself?” Marinek asks this in a slow, tentative way, giving me space to back off if I need it.

“It was fine. I slept in. Worked a bit at the grocer around the corner.”

“Divys?”

“Yeah. They’re nice.”

“They are.”

I pause, taking another spoonful before continuing. “I also ran into your neighbour across the hall.”

Marinek watches me a bit before replying. “And that didn’t go well?”

“It was fine,” I say and push some more porridge into my mouth.

“It seems like it might not have gone well.”

I swallow and pause. Marinek’s eyes fall to their bowl, giving me space.

After a while, I say, “It just reminded me of something I’d rather not remember.”

And Marinek nods and says, “Do you want to talk about it?”

And I say, “No.”

She doesn’t ask about it again.

I am mostly grateful but a piece of me is crumbling under the weight of myself and that piece longs to share its burden.

We spend the rest of the night talking about a book Marinek is reading. Then they wish me a good rest and retreat to their room. I lie on the couch and stare at the ceiling until I feel sleep crawling up my consciousness. I close my eyes and let it take me.