All But Perfect
“Well, Mrs. Locke, what do you think?” He already knew the answer; her face had that my-kids-would-be-so-happy-here quality to it.
He listened as she gushed over the spacious bathroom, the newly-fitted conservatory, the wholesome neighbourhood. “Ah, yes of course... Yes, perfect for those special dinner parties... Did I mention the tire swing out back?”
Baited, hooked, reeled in. Flopping around at his feet, gasping over the Victorian wine cellar. Now all he had to do was get the signatures on the dotted line, before they saw...
The husband had been gone a while; hopefully mentally designing his garage-workshop, or deciding the best place for his desk in the study. Whichever type he was.
“Hmm? Oh, most certainly. A lovely elderly couple on one side, and some young newly weds – much like yourselves – on the other. They just had twins, so you and your husband will need to get to work if you want those play dates.”
A wink and a smile; she blushes and laughs. Calls him by his first name. Flop flop, gasp gasp.
The husband calls from further in the house – his tone says everything. They find him in the dining room, of course. Has she seen this? She hadn't. The mark on the floor, the stain on the carpet.
“Ah, yes, well... There was some water damage. Very minor.” It wasn't, though. Not anymore. It almost swamped the entire ground – there was more stain than carpet at this point.
He was losing them. Perhaps they should take more time to think it over, maybe they shouldn't rush into anything. He barely even tried to persuade them – this was always the point where the ride ended.
All because of this damn stain.
Deep breath, then he reaches into his pocket. They hardly make a sound, and the carpet cushions their fall. The stain grows and takes over the last remaining faction of the cream carpet.
Maybe he should lay down plastic next time. He wouldn't though.
His next viewing was in an hour.
