I pace the room of this 3.5 million dollar home, knowing full well I’ll never own anything like this. I squint my eyes and place my index finger against my chin, making it look like I’m lost in thought. I’m actually not. I know exactly what this house needs in order to sell. It’s my job as a real estate photographer to set it up nicely. My job, realistically should take a full day. I’ve been going to this house for a week now.

Marsha Farwell (or Ms. Farwell to you) is the high maintenance homeowner. She loves my work and doesn’t hesitate to tell me before she condemns the shot I just used. For six months, I’ve been dealing with her phone calls, her hesitations, and now she finally has decided that she wants to bring me in. It’s been difficult, to say the least. She won’t even let me play with the lighting without her strict supervision. To be frank, it’s been a six whole months of complete bullshit.

“It’s not really my job to comment on what this place needs or doesn’t need,” I say. “I kind of just take the pictures and put them up for you.” If I was given complete control, I could make this house look like solid gold.

She waves her hand at me again. “No, no, no, no,” she says. “You’re brilliant. Why don’t you ever give yourself any credit? I want to know what you think.”

“I don’t know. The drapes are a little old fashioned, I guess,” I say. I glance over at her giant fireplace. Above it is a rifle from the Civil War. There are artifacts and rare trinkets everywhere in this house. I wouldn’t be surprised if her room was filled to the brim with scary clown dolls.

“I think if we put some turquoise drapes here, it could really add some life to this house,” she says. “What do you think?”

I look at the current drapes. They’re simple, elegant, and unique. However, they look like they came out of my grandma’s house. She literally just bought them too. I feel a headache start to come on, but I keep doing my job.

“I’m not so sure that turquoise is still in style, Marsha,” I say. “But remember, it’s your house. You make all the final decisions.”

“I know it’s my house, but I want us to decide on this together,” she says.

Right. Together. That’s just a code word for: “I want you to agree with me on this or I’ll give you hell.”

I move the tripod to the corner of the room and look into the viewer. “Why don’t you hire a home designer?” I ask her.

“Too expensive,” she says. “They never know what they’re doing anyway.”

People of Ms. Farwell’s caliber are used to having “yes-men” around them. They’re used to being told they can have everything in the world. Maybe she’s right to think like that. She does pay for it. All I know is that I have a bottle of Rosé at home and a few movies picked out on Netflix. That’s all I care about right now.

I keep my smile fixed on my face. She’s lucky I still have some patience left. In about an hour, I’ll be fresh out. “Well, let’s just keep the turquoise in the back of our minds. I’m not ruling it out, but I’m just not feeling it right now.”

“Well, I don’t know what you want from me. I’m only trying to help,” she says. She tries to keep her cool, but it’s obvious I’ve struck a nerve.

I have to catch myself when I nearly walk out the front door. I check my phone and realize I only have five minutes left here. Thank God. I thought I would never get out of this job.

“You know what? Turquoise is great,” I say. It’ll work well with the purple couch you just bought.” Both of our eyes trail the floor, until we see the couch. She looks at it like a guilty pet.

“I might have missed the mark with the couch,” she says.

I grab my purse and look for my car keys. “Don’t worry, Marsha. You’re going to sell this house and make a lot of money,” I say. “But right now, it’s time for me to head on out.”

“Why are you so anxious? Do you someone waiting up for you?” she asks me.

I blush and look down at her Formica table. A large globe sits on the center. There’s a discarded ring on the corner, most likely worth more than my car.

“No,” I admit. “There’s no one at home waiting for me, yet.”

“That’s good. Be a strong woman. My husband nearly took everything away from me. The luckiest thing that happened to me was him passing,” she says.

“Um.” I shuffle awkwardly, unsure as to how I should respond to that. “Yeah, well. I do want to meet someone. I just work a lot and I’ve passed the age of going out to parties.”

“You’ll meet people. It’s not as exciting as they make it out to be.”

She sways into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of white wine. I watch as she pours a giant glass, stopping right at the brim. “Oh, shoot. Now I have no room for my ice cube.” The realization comes all too fast. If I don’t start changing my lifestyle around, I’m going to end up like this woman, except I won’t be rich.

“It doesn’t end, you know,” she suddenly says.

“What doesn’t?” I ask her.

She takes a big sip from her glass of wine and lowers her eyelids. She smiles and allows herself to be a little more revealing than normal. “The sex,” she whispers. Her face turns a little softer than normal. She winks.

“You mean…” I whisper.

She frowns and turns back to her fridge. She reaches into the freezer and grabs two ice cubes. “Oh, don’t be an ass!” she shouts. “I’m may be old, but I still know how to please a man. I have decades of practice.”

I nearly burst out laughing. I can’t even control myself. “Marsha, what the heck! You’ve been holding back on me this whole time.”

“Young men. Old men. I really just love a guy with a six pack and a strong pair of biceps,” she says. I’m stunned. Literally stunned. “But, that’s a story for another time.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Marsha,” I say.

“Do your thing,” she says. She waves me off. I’m free.

I work for the rich. Nice cars, the best spritzers in town, and turquoise drapes. At this point, Marsha and I have a long history with each other. This is the fourth house she’s sold in four years and she tells me she has three more properties she’s waiting on letting go. When she’s not micromanaging, she’s actually not all that bad. Oddly enough, I appreciate her revealing jokes.

In my car, I let the AC blow across my face. “Okay, Jacqueline, you’re going to be fine. Totally fine. You’re hot and capable. You have a good job and you make decent money. You just need to get out there,” I tell myself.

I turn on the radio and make the drive home. The music cuts to commercials right as I switch to my favorite station. “The Chicago Blackhawks have one more week left, until—” I turn the station to something a bit more upbeat, but I lower the volume. I call up Sharon.

“Hey, babe.” She answers almost immediately. “I’ve been waiting for you to call.”

“You have? I just got done with Marsha. Get this. She basically revealed that she’s a total swinger. She gets laid like all of the time,” I say, turning the corner. I enter onto the freeway. I wait for her snarky comment.

“Wow. She gets laid more than you. Isn’t she 81?” she asks.

“I knew you were going to say something stupid,” I mutter.

Well, I’ve got some exciting news. Tomorrow you’re going to take a play out of Marsha’s book. There’s a huge party downtown and I won free tickets online,” she says. You know the Chicago Blackhawks? Well, I guess they have reserved a whole club and we’re going.”

I groan into the receiver. “A football party?” If there’s anything I don’t want to do, it’s go to a party with a bunch of football players.

“I think they’re hockey players. Who cares what they play? It’s going to be great and there are definitely going to be some hot guys there. I know you had your heart set on that dickhead at the gym, but there will be at least twenty other guys waiting to ride you into next week,” she says, emphatically.

“Sounds… appealing,” I say. Suddenly, the red car behind me veers to the left. It speeds up and cuts me off. “Hey, asshole!” I yell and honk my horn.

“That’s the spirit! Relieve that stress tomorrow night. Anyway, I just really want to hang out with you. You’re my best friend for life,” she says.

She’s been my best friend since college. Back in the day, we used to hit up every single party that we knew about. Sometimes, we’d just drive around until we found something crazy. I don’t really know what happened to me. How have I grown so complacent? It’s as if, once I got out of college, I just set up my life to be comfortable. Now, everything is automated for me. Netflix. My books. Some wine. I’m 28. I should be able to handle exciting things still.

I slam on the gas and cut the red car off. I wave at the grimacing driver, laughing. “Sharon. I’m in!” I yell. “I’m in, all the way.”