I scratched in my personal notebook with a blue ink pen because I was upset again: Why are you so proud to be hateful, and so eager to destroy the world?

The house was granular beige and shadows walked in front of the windows. The gargoyles up high had shoulders like mountains, and they wondered why I was watching them. I imagine the living room has a green couch wrapped in plastic and the kitchen counters are Formica. There’s a small table in the center and the chairs have silver legs and vinyl cushions. There’s a window above the sink and when I go to look out it I see a woman in the window of another house and she’s looking back at me. She whispers something across the dream expanse, “Do you want to go to the sea? It’s blue today.”

It’s then that I turn around and there’s an old, odd man standing there. He’s wearing a black sweater, buttoned half-way, and he has a white Tee-shirt on underneath. He’s holding a black walking stick and he has it up in the air and he’s saying out loud to me in a threatening way, “What are you doing in my kitchen!”

I remind him that I’ve come to look at the house because I’m thinking I’d like to buy it. The Realtor steps in from stage left. She smiles. She bows. The audience cheers. She’s holding a clip board. “Remember, Mr. Fox? We had a showing today at noon. This is Mr. Brockhurst. I’m sure he could present you with a very tempting offer.”

The old man cups his ear and cocks his head. “Mr. Bratwurst?” he wonders aloud. “Is he a wiener?” He laughs at himself.

The Realtor mouths my name slowly, and it sounds to me like she’s underwater: “Brockhurst, not Bratwurst you silly old ignorant man.”

“He’s an immigrant? I won’t sell to an immigrant…”

---

I escape the kitchen and step out into the plush back yard. I retrieve a smoke from my half-empty pack and light up. The sky is cartoon blue with white cartoon clouds very slowly swirling and changing shapes as if the whole of life right then and there was an acid trip. It was then that a woman from the house directly across the alleyway came to the fence and peered over. She yelled out, “Excuse me, sir. But there’s no smoking in this neighborhood. I’m afraid you’ll have to put it out.”

“What’s that?” I answered back, and stealing from the old man’s playbook I said, “You put out? Can I have a drink first, misses?”

She made a sour face and stomped off to her house and went in through a door. I then saw her peeking at me from a window. She had her cell phone close to her face, and she was talking into it, and the whole time she was talking she was looking right at me.

That’s when the Realtor came up from behind and tapped me on the shoulder. She startled me, and I turned and regrettably snapped at her, “Please don’t come up behind me like that,” I snarled. “It really grinds my gears, and I already have enough nervous problems as it is.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Brockhurst. I was just seeing if you were ready to tour the rest of the house.”

---

I followed her swaying rear-end up the narrow stairway to the second floor where the bedrooms were.

“There’s three bedrooms,” she said. “A master and two smaller ones. And a bathroom here.” She presented it elegantly with a soft hand.

“All right then,” I said. “I’m getting a bit fidgety. What’s the closet space like in the master?”

She smiled. “Right this way.”

When we got into the master bedroom the old man was laid out on a neatly made bed. He was trying to imitate the sound of a peacock.

The Realtor went to the bed and touched his arm. “Mr. Fox? Is everything all right?”

His eyes popped wide open, and he grinned. “Don’t you think my plumage is lovely. My colors are so fanciful.”

The Realtor tried to soothe him. “Why yes, Mr. Fox. Your plumage is wonderful, and your colors are so very fanciful.”

“I’m glad you like them… Say, why don’t you hop on my pecker, lady. I’ve still got plenty of ink in my pen.”

He tried to reach out for her, and she stepped away. “Mr. Fox. What a fine and proper name seeing you are such a sly Fox. But I’m afraid you need to stow that pen away for another day. I’m working.”

His face turned glum, and he got up off the bed and went to the window. “Delores?” he said. “Is that you at the sill?”

The Realtor went to him and put her hands on his frail shoulders. “Who’s Delores?”

He turned to look at her. His eyes were wide and lost. “Delores is my wife. She’s perched out there on the sill. Don’t you see her?”

The Realtor played along and looked at the windowsill. “Why yes, she’s very lovely. Just like your plumage… Why don’t you sit here on the edge of the bed, and you can talk with her while I show Mr. Brockhurst the rest of the house.”

---

We stopped at the front door, and I pulled on my driving gloves. “I like the place. Let me consider an offer and I’ll get back to you.”

“All right then,” she answered.

“Say,” I began. “How about joining me for a coffee and a doughnut over at that little place on Vine Street.”

“Coco’s Diner?”

“That’s the place. We can talk business… Or pleasure, if you wish.” I opened the door and followed her out.

It was then there came a disturbing clamber and thud from inside the house. Mr. Fox had fallen down the stairs and now laid at the bottom of them. He was groaning and breathing hard.

The Realtor’s head turned. “Did you hear something?”

I stood still for a moment and listened. “Not a thing. It must have been the wind, or perhaps, a wayward wish.”