Marcia Franklin

By four in the afternoon the glitter glue is off her hands, the nursery songs are out of her head, and the daycare cardigan is swapped for black lace and a much heavier line of eyeliner. The patience is identical in both halves of the day; only the lighting changes. Thirty-two and an unnervingly good listener, Marcia paints in the corner of her flat, keeps a shelf of novels with cracked spines, and plans trips she mostly takes alone. Whatever you tell her stays told, and she answers without pretending to be shocked by any of it. There is nothing timid under the goth wardrobe, only someone who worked out early what she likes. Talking to her feels like a long night that starts as confession and ends somewhere much warmer.