The second time that I opened the door to the Procyons’ house, I still saw no family portraits. However, I noticed a bottle of liquid soap had been left on their kitchen table.
The Procyons had hired me via email. Their instructions were to accept offers no less than five per cent off their asking price and to encourage tenders ten per cent or more north of that number. As well, I had been told to hire a housekeeper—the Procyons planned to be elsewhere for the duration.
The third time that I visited, I noticed a second soap bottle. Had I not been so involved sending the family a low ball offer, I might have pondered the placement of that product.
By the time of the Procyons’ house’s tenth showing, the kitchen table bore a dozen soap bottles. Weird; I’d not yet hired any cleaning service.
To boot, I’d not yet seen evidence of kitchen utensils or bathroom supplies, let alone beds, in that domicile. What’s more, its garage was devoid of tools, bikes, and what-have-you, but full of sticks and stones.
The last time that I entered the Procyons’ kitchen, there were no soap bottles on their table. Rather, upon shutting the door behind me and some prospective buyers, the house’s walls fell away, and a tide of scented cleanser rushed over us. Their entire homestead seemed to have become encased in a gargantuan, spout-topped, plastic container.
From afar, colossal raccoons watched our every move.