Edio Yenye Shavu

Mrs. Delaney had the kind of laugh that made you want to laugh too—deep and sudden, like someone had just told a joke she’d been waiting years to hear. She was in her early forties, all soft curves and sharp cheekbones, with a habit of touching her bottom lip when she was thinking. Her apartment building was one of those old brick places with mullioned windows that caught the afternoon light just right, the kind of spot that made you forget the rent was due until she was knocking on your door.