Saturday the buyers of our house asked to do a walk-through. They wanted to get a head-start on planning some remodeling work, and I had no problem with that. The house is a catastrophic mess of boxes and dis-assembled furniture, but that couldn't be helped. Just before 3pm our agent Gabe showed up. We talked politics for a while until the listing agent arrived with her clients. There were two forty-something guys with their wives and two teenagers who are apparently going to live in the house when they start at Towson University next year.
Everybody went to the basement except for the teens, a boy and a girl, who were talking about what art work they were going to hang and how cool the fire I had going was. The boy admiringly looked in the 'frige and told the girl he could fit plenty of cases in there. After a few minutes the boy went down to the basement and the girl went upstairs because she wanted to pick which bedroom would be hers. I think the buyers are planning to take out the old hot water radiators and install some kind of forced-air heat pump, hence the lengthy subterranean conference.
Gabe and I talked the Scooter Libby trial for a bit and then the teen girl came back downstairs. "I'm soooo sorry," she said. "I didn't realize somebody else was up there!" She had both hands sheepishly stuffed in the front belly pouch of her Towson hoodie.
"What?" I asked, as Gabe laughed in surprise.
"The old man in the bedroom chair. He seems really nice, and smiled when I said hello. Is he your grandfather?"
I didn't have the heart to tell her.