The house shaped like a fiddle smells like frozen egg yolks. The flower pots have faces painted on them. Miniature statuary, vulgar, bought from an estate sale, lurks in the foliage. Puddles on the walk blink with lonesome heat. The Realtor ® speaks with a cockney accent when he's making his wisecracks, and while I'm not yet seduced, I am waxing my fingertips. I am slipping discs of paper in the gap between the wall and the shabby wainscoting.
