The entranceway tiles were stamped with realtor logos, a sheet of little signs leading to the staircase. The carpeted stairs squished under their feet, the protective plastic marked with neon crayon that indicated dimensions and ownership percentages. The unit door opened with a chime; the track lighting in the living room turned from the custom crown moldings to the prospective couple.

"Come in, please," said the agent, a middle-aged woman in a dark turtleneck and silver jewelry that matched the granite countertop and stainless steel appliances. The cherry cabinets matched her lipstick. Her black eyes, dead as dolls, reflected too much, her plaster smile as forced as the "Bless This Condo" throw pillow beside the decorative fireplace. The couple bent forward, peering down the hardwood hallway floor. "Let me guess," said the realtor. "You were driving by and said, 'Honey, stop the car!'"

She then rattled off the fabulous finishes, which winked as they passed; she knocked on the solid doors, which bowed, and lauded the reputable contractor, whose name was stenciled on the brick facade. She clacked down the hallway. The wife nudged the husband, pointed at the realtor's shoes. They were 12-inch square blocks.

She introduced the master bedroom with a vast sweep of her hand. Then she wedged herself into the closet so the couple could fit into the room. The ceiling fan shrugged, the window treatments bristled. The master bath had a kidney-shaped Jacuzzi, but when the wife sat on the toilet her knees hit the wall. "About $100,000 for these two rooms," the husband said -- he rapped on the bathroom wall.

"You can't think that way about your home," the realtor following the couple to the balcony, which overlooked the garage tops of an alley. "Think value." Yes, yes, they knew: resale value, assessment factor, the flawless roof, the coveted parking spot.

"It's not a home," the wife refuted. "It's a condo."

"Half a million," said the husband, "for 1,200 square feet." They gazed into twilight, ignoring the realtor. If only they could guarantee that everyone else would keep playing the game, keep buying and selling, keep investing, keep dipping their hand in the pool. The city spread itself out, the wave of development rippling westward, border to border, coast to coast.

"We could buy a farm, have acres." He always said this.

"That might feel like a home." She leaned on him. "But would it appreciate?"

A BRIEF EXCHANGE

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