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Okay, this is a reprieve. A break. A breather from the sudden whirlwind of having Will re-appear in my life.
This week is a chance.
A chance to prove I’m worth that stager’s commission.
And a chance to get Will out of my life by getting the house under contract as fast as possible.
The drive to his parents’ house is a blur. It’s not just a blur because unexpected tears come, but also because it’s a small town. Five minutes, tops, anywhere, unless it’s rush hour or parade day.
I get there and storm up the Perfect Path to the Perfect Door and enter the Perfect Home.
In tears.
Why?
Why am I crying?
Setting the urn down on the table in the hall, I walk in, close the front door, and make a beeline for the bedrooms. My mission is clear:
Learn more about this family.
Staging a space involves personality. My approach is the exact opposite of all those real estate advice articles about making a house as neutral as possible so potential buyers and renters can project themselves into it.
Personality matters.
People are more pliable and open than we think.
When a potential buyer or renter enters a home, yes, their headspace is all about them. Imaginations are quirky when it comes to space. We have to live in the past, the now, and the future, all at the same time. People do need to be able to imagine themselves living in a new home, but it doesn’t have to be a blank space. It can be aspirational, a place to grow, change a little, maybe live a little better.
Will we be able to let go of our current space and all the joy and disappointment attached to it? Can we appreciate what we’re seeing in front of our face without bringing too much emotional baggage along?
Television shows and modern media about home living focus on that third layer: the future.
But it’s the past that really propels us into that unknown.
The house is ice cold. Somewhere in the AC system, a piece of machinery must have malfunctioned. Before I forget, I pull out my phone and send the office manager a quick email requesting repair service, cc’ing Will. I shiver and forge ahead.
I walk up the stairs, headed for the first group of bedrooms. Bedrooms are windows into people’s souls.
Bzz. Bzzz. Bzzzzzzz. My stupid phone (86% charged, thank you very much) is going nuts in my pocket. All day, I’ve been plagued with offers to screw.
Yes. That’s right. No one has asked me out on an actual date yet. They just want to fill every hole except my mouth.
Er, actually… that one, too. A few guys are really, really specific about what they want. Including pictures, and one enterprising soul even sent a flow chart.
Last time I checked, semen didn’t qualify as a dinner date.
But for some of these guys, those calories count.
Opening the app, I swipe Hell no over and over until one of the offers catches my eye.
Do you like to dance? No screwing required.
Clever pickup line. Spelled correctly, with–bonus!–punctuation. My bar is so low right now. I open the message.
Hi Deco91, he starts.
No, my username isn’t original, but that’s the point. Anonymity requires a certain blandness. If I wanted creepy stalkers to be able to find me for a good old-fashioned kidnapping, I’d call Beastman and Spatula.
