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On the Wednesday before the Thanksgiving break, Sylvia makes a special trip to see Smith, bringing the pumpkin-walnut cookies Mitzi made and then packed into a lopsided raku cookie jar--or repurposed funeral urn, anyway.  Hello? she calls from the hall, instead of knocking.

Come on in  Smith is sitting on his bed, scribbling in a crossword puzzle book.  It's not Sunday.  Everything alright?

"Yup."  She doesn't want him reading her mind just yet, and she harbors the delusion that, if she doesn't open a telepathic channel, she won't broadcast her intentions.  "I just wanted to ask you about something."

Never move directly into it unless you're trying to pave over previous bad feelings with honesty and directness.  The Mark will usually get suspicious.  Go about the regular topics of conversation first, then at an opportune moment spring the trap.  He looks up at her from his crossword puzzle book.  the corners of his mouth turn up in what would be a smile from anyone else, but comes across as a facade of that same thing on smith's face.  "What did you want to ask?"  He says, his voice less rough but still obviously unused.

She's sure there's some smooth way of broaching the topic, but damned if she knows what it is.  "Um.  Mitzi's throwing a potluck.  Do you want to come?  You don't have to bring anything.  Just yourself."  She pauses.  "Do you have real clothes?"

Blink.  Blink.  What are you up to?"

"Nothing."  Sylvia feels weirdly guilty about this, but really she's trying to help him out.  "Well.  Um.  I thought you might like to meet some people.  Some nice people."  She can't help herself:  Some nice, single women people.  And then she tries to distract him.  "Look, cookies!"  She hefts the crazy, lopsided, blackish funeral-urn-cum-cookie-jar and hands it to him.

He takes the cookie jar and extracts a cookie, munching on it.  He's quiet for a long time, looking her in the eyes.  I'm flattered,  but I'm not sure I'm ready for that.  People are a big deal.

"You made it all the way to Oak Park and back.  How bad could a potluck be?"

"Appliances."  Sylvia grimaces over that word.  You mean that their value is measured in utility, their ability to execute a function.  Consider, then, that one function of appliance, human being, is to entertain.  "Come and be entertained."  Every individual is a puzzle, some more complicated than others, full of surprises.  "Maybe one of the knitting ladies will be, I don't know, secretly a world-class cello player or a superhero in disguise.  Or, you know, at the very least she might be totally wizard at, like, making socks.  You could use socks."

Smith looks at the cookies, then back up at Sylvia.  Did you drug the cookies, cause that's the only rational explanation for why I'm even considering doing this.

"Mitzi might have put a spell on the cookies," Sylvia says matter-of-factly, "but I'm sure it's for your own good."

"Worst case I have your mother teach me to knit.  That'll help pass the time in here."

"They let you have pointy objects?" Sylvia asks.  Then she gets serious.  "Mom's also asked if you need any wardrobe therapy.  That's not quite how she put it, but I told her you didn't have much in the way of smart career wear."

"This is November.  In Chicago."

"Point taken."