Kit was tired. She had shown the house nearly forty times without a single offer. Apparently, people were turned off by the creaking floorboards, the nonstop groans and the blood-streaked walls. Cowards.
“We’ve heard all about that. We don’t care,” said the voice on the other end of the phone.
Kit shot up straight, first time in months.
“I’ll be there in twenty,” she said, reaching for her keys.
Could this burden, this unsellable monstrosity, finally be off her plate?
Kit took a swig before stashing her bottle of cheap bourbon back into her bottom desk drawer.
One can dream…
The Weekday One Hundred 