Page 637 of Deep Pockets

There’s a house brochure on the honed marble counter behind me, printed on heavy paper with gorgeous, full-color photos. It makes a useful fan. I wave it in front of my face, staring up at the beamed ceiling, willing my pulse to re-center itself where it belongs, at my throat.

And not between my legs.

Bright, natural light bounces off the whitewashed crossbeams in the kitchen, the big, antique iron and glass lanterns over the center island creating an interesting focal point that grounds me. Inhaling deeply, I smell clary sage and cinnamon, which tells me more than I learned about this house during my brief time as an accidental porn-set fluffer.

Will’s mother, or her interior designer, was going for the whole environment.

For the next hour, I consider relationships–of objects, not humans. People think that the stuff is what matters, and they’re right.

But only half right.

It’s also about the space. The relationship between objects, some complementary, some contradictory. How they exist relative to each other, and how we move between and around them. How we find our place in the world is dictated by arrangements.

Arrangements of items, people, and time.

I want my one percent, I text him, attaching pictures when I’m done.

Nice! he texts back.

Of course it is!

When it sells, he replies.

Get your checkbook ready, buddy, because this place will be under contract in a week, I text back, thumbs flying so fast, doubt can’t creep in.

If this place is under contract in a week at full price, I’ll up that commission to one point two five and throw in a case of Fluff.

Deal! But you can keep the Fluff.

No deal. You have to take the Fluff or else.

Or else what?

No deal.

You’re forcing me to accept an entire case of Fluff because of a double entendre?

Yes.

That moves the joke out of the funny category into the stupid category. Why are you making me?

Because I already bought the case and have no desire to be stuck with it.

Too bad. You’ll have to find something to do with all that Fluff. Think of it as a timesaver.

Timesaver?

Now you know what your lunches are for the next year.

I hate fluffernutter sandwiches.

Really? So do I. I thought I was the only kid in Massachusetts who didn’t like them, I text back.

Admitting you hate fluffernutter sandwiches when you live in New England is like saying you’re a Yankees fan.

You’re entitled to your opinion as long as you never, ever express it.

Yet another thing we have in common, Mal.

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