There was talk, then there were papers, then there was more talk, roundabout and direct, and then there was a thicker stack of papers, shar p, empty lines on each page, begging for consummation, and then, later, after about a week, there was a house. With her mouth wide open, Mandy stared up at the two-stor y colonial. Her skin cried out for refuge from the August sun, cooking and merciless, and she shuff led into the shade of the neighbor's sk y-scraping pine tree. Though cooler and sight undaunted, she cupped a hand to help pull the visual into her brain, but the infor mation, the massive multi-bedroom, clapboard picture before her proved to be beyond comprehension. Along the sidewalk, exactly in the middle, ripping Mandy from her slack-jawed confusion, a young woman with a slicked back ponytail, wearing combination black and blood orange athletic wear, jogged passed her. Holding herself back, Mandy wanted nothing more than to block the woman's path, point to the house, and say, “Can you fucking believe this?� But Mandy never swore; to her, foul language felt r ude and tiresome like it belonged undisturbed in bad 1980s standup
WELCOME HOME BY GREY TRAYNOR