Free Until the Real Thing Comes Along by Elizabeth Berg

female chatter and blow-dryers. I watch a very thin young woman dressed entirely in black use a wide broom to clean up varying shades of hair. It’s probably all married hair. I look around at the women in the place. Yup, nearly all of them wear wedding rings.
    “I am incapable of having a meaningful relationship,” I tell Amber. “That’s it. It’s a very interesting form of self-sabotage, because what I want most in my life is to have a family. But every time I get anywhere close, I make sure to mess it up. Now why do I do that?”
    Amber sits back in her chair. “This is a nine-dollar manicure. You know?”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “What color do you want?”
    “You pick.”
    She selects a bottle of colorless polish.
    “What, are you mad at me?”
    She smiles, shakes her head. “I think you’ve got that all taken care of, hon. No, you don’t get color because your nails look like shit. Have you been biting them?”
    “No!”
    “You can tell me.”
    “A little.”
    “Well, cut it out.”
    “Okay.”
    She starts painting my thumbnail.
    “The problem is, I’m in love with a gay man,” I say quietly.
    “I know,” she says. Not quietly.
    I am getting pretty tired of telling this story. But not nearly as tired as people are of hearing it.
    Back at the office, there is another message from Artie. This time he answers. “Is that cottage on Green Street still for sale?” His voice is low, secretive.
    “Yes, I think so. You want to see it again?”
    “No, I want to buy it.”
    “But don’t you want to see it again first? It was a few months ago-”
    “No, I want to buy it. I got the money. What do we need to do?”
    “Well, we’ll need to make an offer first, see what they come back with.”
    “Give them full price.”
    “Oh, I don’t think you—”
    “Give them full price, I’ll be in tomorrow, we’ll do the paperwork.”
    “All right. But you’ll have to give me a check with the offer. A thousand dollars. Earnest money. You know.”
    “Oh yeah, right. I forgot about that. Been a long time since I bought a house. How late are you there?”
    “I can meet you anytime, Artie.”
    “All right. Eight o’clock tonight.”
    “Is Muriel coming?”
    “No.”
    I’d thought not.
    I think about Artie handing me the earnest money and I get a notion, suddenly, that it will be cash. Out of a coffee can. A big stack of dollar bills, bent in half, or maybe rolled up in a rubber band that Muriel took off a bunch of celery long ago. And then I get another notion. That, taking that money, I’ll feel really bad.
    The phone rings again. Mrs. Dugan. Could they see the colonial again, tonight? Sure, I say, surprised. She tells me they’ll be there in twenty minutes.
    An hour later, I am sitting on the kitchen floor of the colonial, admiring my manicure, looking in my purse to see if there’s anything I can play with in there. Nothing. Once more, I go to the window to look out and see if there are any cars coming. No. Well, this could be a couple of things. It could be that Joanne is paying me back for calling her kid an asshole. Or it could be that she just won’t show up. This happens all the time in real estate. You show up somewhere, the clients don’t.
    I turn out the kitchen light, then walk around the house, turning out all the other lights. Then, in the beautiful light of the full moon outside, I pretend I live here. I go to the door of a bedroom, lean in. “Good night,” I say. The boy, Lego creations lined up on the windowsill. Then I go to another bedroom door, lean in that one, say, “Good niiiiight.” The girl, irresistible dresses hanging in her closet, though she prefers her bib overalls. On which I have embroidered things. Little flowers. A sun with a face.
    I go down into the kitchen, open the empty ice box. “Hon?” I say. “I’m making a sandwich. Do you want one?”
    I close the refrigerator door, lean against it, sigh. I have books on the shelves of the little den; I have a