THE PERFECT HOUSE
A piece of plaster tumbled from the ceiling, narrowly missing Lydia.
“This is perfect !” she beamed, her eyes teary from excitement. “I’ve always dreamt to buy a home just like this.”
Nancy, her real estate agent, rubbed her eyes, also teary, and sneezed—three times. “I’m… sorry,” she stammered, with a nasal inflection. “I must… be… allergic to… mold.” She sneezed, her sinuses so stuffy as to render her voice unrecognizable. “Are you… sure , Ms. Jordan? I understand… the fascinations some folks…” She sneezed again and rubbed more, smearing her make-up. “… have with… fixer-uppers. But this… dump must be… the queen… of fixer-uppers…” This time the rubbing threatened to remove a layer of skin off her lids. “Wouldn’t you… want to consult… with your… fiancé first? I… could show the two… of you… some other… properties… maybe.” By now, Nancy’s eyes had turned so red that they seemed to leak blood.
“Oh, dear. You really are allergic.” Lydia patted the other woman on her shoulder, wafting the cloud of dust settled during the last five minutes. “No, I meant it. I may be young, but I want to restore a house. My fiancé understands that I want to do it alone. It was me who insisted on this. You see, since I was a child, I dreamed of buying a derelict house and fixing it myself. I can’t ever recall not having this dream. I remember sitting on our porch—we used to have a very small house. For a family with four kids you surely see how space would become an issue.”
Nancy sneezed again and reeled on her heels, a movement that portended an imminent collapse. “Fascinating…”
“You bet,” Lydia said, scaring a mouse back to its hole. “I used to sit on the porch, drawing in my head the map of my perfect house . I planned it to the smallest detail. Restoring old barn doors, bringing the natural colors indoors, things like that. I wanted to blend a rustic vibe with a modern one. Do you ever watch House and Garden TV ? Of course, you do—you’re a Realtor. I’ve always loved that channel. During one show, the designer retrofitted old milk jugs into vases. How original is that! I’m planning to do something similar. Oh, and the art! I love large pieces of art. But not the regular ones… The unexpected pieces. I like to find art in negative spaces.”
“Fascinating,” Nancy croaked, swaying. She slid in an armchair so chalky that the cloud, which stirred up, seemed to consume her body.
“After I first saw it, I had a dream about this house. I mean, a real, sleep-induced dream. Did I mention this already to you?”
The real estate agent waved her hand with a noncommittal gesture, which for a moment resembled a drowning man’s arm-flailing.
Cavorting around the living room, Lydia laughed, as the floor cracked under her high heels. “You bet. I was just returning from the job interview, when my GPS went wacky. I drove around for what seemed like hours—though it must have been only twenty minutes. Then I saw it. The angels sang when the sunrays fell on this house. It felt like a sign.”
By the window, a cabinet door slanted on hinges and crashed on what was left of the moth-holed carpet. Simpering, Lydia carried on. “That night, I dreamt that the house, this house, spoke to me. It told me that we were made for each other. That we belong to each other. That only I see its potential and so only I should have the right to live in it.” She spun around, impervious to the graffiti spelling on each wall ‘DIE!’ in red paint.
By now, Nancy had abandoned her fight against dust, not even attempting anymore to unclench her eyes. “If… you made up your… mind… then… you can si-” sneeze, “sign the… papers today.”
“Really?” Lydia glowed like she had just won the lottery.
“Really. I believe… I could find you… a better home… Anyhow… even… considering the
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