“People float here all the time,” I say, smiling. My teeth feel like Chiclets glued to a gumline. “It’s the buoyancy of denial.”
I think of my own apartment in Ybor City, where the cockroaches wear tiny suits of armor and the upstairs neighbor practices the tuba at 3 AM. “Ma’am,” I say, pulling a Ziploc bag of Goldfish crackers from my purse, “in Florida, the house isn’t the thing that’s haunted. You are the thing that haunts the house.” tampa alissa nutting sample
Mrs. Hendricks touches the blinds. Her manicured nail leaves a tiny dent in the plastic. “Is it haunted?” “People float here all the time,” I say, smiling
The Realtor of Sun City Center
She buys it. They always do. I hand her the keys, and the metal is so hot from the sun it burns a little brand into my palm: a cursive S for sold . Or maybe S for sucker . It’s hard to tell in this light. “Ma’am,” I say, pulling a Ziploc bag of
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.
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