Mrs. Hendricks touches the blinds. Her manicured nail leaves a tiny dent in the plastic. “Is it haunted?”
The Realtor of Sun City Center
“People float here all the time,” I say, smiling. My teeth feel like Chiclets glued to a gumline. “It’s the buoyancy of denial.” tampa alissa nutting sample
“The master bedroom faces west,” I say, gesturing to a room where the afternoon sun makes the dust motes look like airborne maggots. “You can watch the sunset melt the highway.” “Is it haunted
She doesn’t laugh. They never laugh. That’s the secret of Tampa real estate: no one is buying a home. They are buying a vault to store their grief. A garage to park the memory of the affair they had in 1987. A walk-in closet to hide the bankruptcy papers. I unlock the sliding glass door, and the air inside is the smell of last year’s pork roast and a rug that’s seen a thousand bare feet. “You can watch the sunset melt the highway