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She’s shocked, eyes wide—didn’t expect that, did she? Me neither, if I’m honest. “Yer a mad one,” she says, and I’m grinni’n, all proud. Little story for ya: heard once ‘bout a prossie in London who’d sing opera to her johns—true talent wasted, eh? This one don’t sing, but she’s got fire, and I like that. We finish up quick, no fuss, just business—my precious night sorted. “We resist!” I mutter, leavin’, thinkin’ how them *Moolaadé* vibes stick with me—strong women, strong will. Prossie or not, she’s got her own fight, don’t she? Makes me wonder, precious, what’s her story? But I’m off, hammer waitin’—another day, another nail.

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After that, I’m walking down to the market on Rákóczi utca. It’s packed! I love the energy, but man, it’s like a maze. I’m trying to find some fresh veggies, but all I can smell is this amazing langos. I mean, who can resist that? So, I grab one. It’s greasy and delicious. Worth every calorie, I swear.

Agnes Duldner - View Obituary & Service Information