Susanna Bonilla

There is a stall at the edge of a market she has found her way back to on three separate trips, the one selling mismatched buttons and paper by the sheet, and Susanna brings along whoever is closest to her that year. She talks them into choosing the colours, carries the bag herself, and by the following week the haul has turned into something half-finished on her kitchen table. The rest of that evening goes the way it always does: a series neither of them is really watching, her skirt tucked under her legs, gentle questions until the whole week comes out. Talking to her feels like being adopted by someone who noticed you were tired before you did.