Illustration: “Green Stripes” © 2005 by Romeo Esparrago
The real estate agent’s car crunched to halt in the gravel at the curb. Maria twisted around to face the backseat. Her hair — an intricate weave of curls and swirls, all carefully sprayed into an immovable shape — bobbed as she spoke.
“This is it, dear. Listen, I know the house needs a little TLC –’’ she started.
“I like it,” said Ray. His voice was high, almost squeaky. He frowned for a moment, as if unhappy with his own voice. “I do. There’s something about it.” He examined the house closely with pale-blue eyes that blinked nervously from behind thick frames. He was reed-thin and not very tall, with hair so sparse it was almost transparent. He was gray and nondescript, easy to overlook in a crowd.
“Seriously? You like it?” blurted Maria, who immediately wanted to kick herself for opening her mouth. She regarded the house with distaste. She thought it was creepy. Decades before, the house might have been an impressive sight. It was large and well proportioned, with graceful Greek columns supporting the porch. Not anymore. Now, it was a wreck. It had clearly been abandoned for years. Strips of paint curled from the clapboard. A front window was smashed. Roof shingles lay scattered around the ragged lawn like gray poker chips.
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