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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