i stood there in between two columns of men, both realtors, both talking shop. back and forth my head swiveled like at a tennis match. “what you need is an emotional seller,” he (not my realtor) said. “someone who wants their home not to go to an investor.” i agreed but this day, this market? they’ve always gone with the highest bid, not the highest sympathy bid. i’m placing bets on unicorns.
a sunday day of massive productivity equaled a night where my brain wouldn’t shut off and the dreams spilled from one into the next into the next into the next into my consciousness. i wished i could stay awake because it’d be more restful than those dreams of heavy handfuls of lotion, of late arrivals, of misplaced clothes, of delayed planes, of walking with a limp.
i was doctoring my decaf americano when i heard, “oh, [bleep].” his voice was louder than it needed to be, but a quick glance over revealed he had earbuds in. the top of the honey bottle was now in his coffee and without a top to stop it, the rest of the honey in the bottle was galloping into his cup. he fished it out with one of the wooden coffee stirrers and returned it to an employee. i suppose this rainy day needed some extra sweetness.
i thought the rain was supposed to stop hours ago.