Condo for Sale- slightly distressed

Rachel walks across the parking lot behind the triplex- firm steps in black high heels. Beige skirt, summer blouse, black, billowing in the afternoon breeze. Her office is sending her emails to her purse right now, but she won't answer. Can't. She left work early to come deal with this nightmare that has gone on for months.

She rounds the corner to the front of the building where Marc is sitting waiting for her. He is wearing shorts and sandals and that horrible pink golf shirt he thinks looks good on him. But he's not sitting on the first steps, he is sitting six or seven steps up, so he will have the upper ground. His cell phone is out and open- he's pretending to read text messages? From who? His broker? Like brokers keep in touch with day-traders. It's like a dep owner keeping in touch with customers addicted to scratch-and-win tickets.

The for sale sign is still out in front. The face of their pathetic agent is vainly peering out trying to project confidence, professionalism and friendliness all at the same time. She thinks he looks like a child molester instead.

5 months now, since the separation and now 4 weeks since the divorce, and not one serious offer on this condo they barely lived in. Their first home together and it stands empty now, a drain on both of their finances, a drain on both of their emotions. How many calls, emails and failed meetings with realtors and other couples must she go through until she can walk away from this thing? It is just a thing- a second floor enclosure of brick and plaster, glass and wiring. It is not a symbol for anything- it was never a promise of any idealized relationship. Never was a place to fall in love all over again, to take the disused den and turn it into a nursery, to grow plants and buy rugs and...

It was a trap. A trap to turn her into one of the neighbourhood wives with thick calves and practical haircuts and baby yoga lessons and small dinners with other couples that end at 11PM. With strollers and "nappy bags" you buy at Wal-Mart. A trap to turn her into a wife and mother and a side note in this man's life.

And here, here he sits looking like a golf pro in front of our condo that we could easily sell for $189k, but he insists on asking for $220k. It stands still and barren, couples who come to view it can sense the failure- the danger of the place. Bad vibes- the tension between the two of them like razor-wire drawn taut all through the space- slashing at their soft parts. Fear. Pain.

His cell phone actually rings. The viewing is canceled. She turns away from him and walks back to the metro without saying a word. She's never coming to show the house again.