The slick real estate guy tells me to write about my house.
“Make it nice,” he says.
So I do.
“Nicer,” he says. “Powder the language.”
He sends me an email with “Code Words” in the subject line.
So I try.
I use “handyman’s dream,” and my house smiles.
“Come on,” my house says. “Have you seen the basement? Even Bob Vila would cry.”
I move on. I pen “cul de sac.”
And my house laughs. “Dead end, no?” it says.
“City living.” That sounds nice, I think.
“You mean buy a gun?” it says.
“New paint,” I write.
“That stuff!” it says, shaking its shingles. “It’s thinner than microfiche.”
“Near transportation,” I jot.
My house winks. “Be real,” it says. “Tell ‘em Amtrak blasts through the yard every couple hours.”
“Victorian,” I scrawl, knowing it’s coming.
“You Agatha Christie-loving son of a gun! These words aren’t for me,” it says, drunk on turpentine. “Nothing coded or powdered here. I’m a loudmouth with loud paint. My pipes are shot. I’m a mess. You know I’m a mess.”
Quickly, I put down “Motivated seller.”
And my house is quiet.
Just the hum of traffic.
I wait and wait.
And my house doesn’t say a thing.
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