“Sweet Water” by Ashley Murray
--page 5

         Carl, the real estate guy, carts me around in his little Toyota Corolla. The perfect car for him, I decide, taking in the slight bulge at his belt and the nervous twitch of his eyes.
         Our goal, according to Carl, is to see ten houses today. And at the door of the fourth one, he asks if he can buy me a drink some time.I’d love to, I say, but...
         You have a boyfriend, he finishes. Of course you do. You’re too beautiful not to.
         The compliment is simple and too familiar. But even so, my stomach flips.
         It’s been ages since I’ve heard something like it. Ray stopped calling me beautiful a long time ago.
         No, it’s not that, Carl.
         I readjust my purse, sling it back on my shoulder so my ringed hand is in full view.
         Oh, he says when he sees it. Oh.
         He blushes and puts the key into the door. Jiggles the lock and pushes it open.
         It’s not too big, Carl says, still slightly red. But it’s a pretty little thing.
         He starts talking about what we can hope to milk out of my bank teller’s salary. The type of loan I might be willing to take out. He is rattling on about resale value when I stop listening to him.
         The floors creak and a dank, musty smell hangs in the air. The stove is caked with old grease. In the bathroom, the faucet drips.None of this matters.
         As soon as Carl flips on the light, I immediately know it is the one.
         The kitchen is small and bright. A counter in the center and a tiny breakfast nook off in the corner, square window above the sink. Already I can see myself looking out of it. I know exactly which pictures I would hang on the wall.
         If I want I could be right here. Every day here, in this kitchen. Alone listening to music and drinking a beer, cooking chicken fried steak.
         I could burn it and it wouldn’t matter.
         Out back is a small garden fenced in by wire. Cherry tomatoes and okra, some squash. I could cut them in quarters, fry them in canola oil.
         Beside the vegetables is a mesquite tree, buckling into itself. When I see it, I feel like laughing. It is all too perfect. Even more so than if I imagined it.
         This is my house, I say.
         Carl stops talking and turns toward me.
         What? he says.
         This is it, I say. I don’t need to see anything else.
         Really?
         The surprise on his face makes him look almost handsome.
         I smile.
         Really, I say. Where do I sign?
         He shakes his head and grins, shakes my hand.
         Good Lord, he says. That was almost too easy.

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