I'm standing on the back deck of a boring house in an upscale part of town. I'm looking across the river at the forested hills that surround the city. I am imagining a cat around my feet and a row of tomatoes in the yard.

I'm standing in the bedroom of a child, artificially tidied by her mother just a few minutes before. Dirty child's footprints leave a chaotic pattern on the laminate flooring.

I'm standing behind the sink of an old person's home, where they stood for years, washing up from dinner. I'm staring into the neighbour's carport. The countertop is at least 40 years old, smooth from so many wiping downs.

All of these peoples houses, all of them imperfect is various ways.

In the meantime, I have fallen in love with my realtor. How predictable. Salt and pepper hair, quirky sense of humour, golden retriever good nature. I can hardly look him in the eye because I'm afraid that I'll give myself away.