Selling Features and Bullet Points

Marissa, is struggling with a major depressive episode and self harm.

Marissa and Lexi Thompson-Harold held hands as they took a left onto Vance-Jackson Street, deep within the concrete jungle of Northwest San Antonio, Texas. Their forest green Nissan Altima’s low fuel light came on during the outro of Heart’s Magic Man. The gas prices really deterred Marissa, the couple’s budgetary expert and CPA. She winced each time they unhooked the gas cap and stuck a nozzle in. They didn’t have time to stop now, and even if they did. Marissa implored her wife, a struggling artist and street musician, to only fuel up at Sam’s club gas stations where they received the member’s discount. The ticking of Marissa’s Altima’s blinker ticked at 154 bpm as they yielded to the oncoming traffic coming from FM 1535 onto Vance-Jackson in a terrifyingly confusing intersection that looked like it was made by a city planner who drew in crayon and without any straight edges. Marissa knew it ticked at 154 bpm because Lexi just covered Eric Clapton’s Tears in Heaven on her newest LP recorded in the home studio that their favorite friend, Rodrigo Fab on YouTube, bought them off their registry. Her album was titled Robbed Blind, a ten song LP that she wrote and recorded in under a week, an incredible feat. 

“I just want a place where they understand us,” said Marissa.

“I want that too babe.”

Marissa finally turned down Larkspur Dr in Castle Hills into their prospective new apartment homes after what seemed like ages waiting on a mid 2000s gray Buick LeSabre to get through the yellow light. Fourteen hundred square feet for fifteen hundred a month was well within Marissa’s highly regimented budget as her stable six-figure income allowed for her partner’s artistic endeavors. All that was left now was to tour the apartment.

When they pulled into the leasing office, the spot labeled “future resident parking” did little to inspire any real sense of certainty in calling this apartment complex home, even if it was temporary. Furthermore, the bubbly blonde leasing agent, dressed in a power suit and heels that looked like they could double as a self defense instrument, did little to inspire confidence in Marissa either. She was more of a no-nonsense sort of girl, at least publicly, the trait she assigned to the modest success she found at Youngs, Youngs, and Howard, the accounting firm she was now a remote account executive of.

Marissa turned the key, and with that, Sheryl Crow’s voice stopped in the intro to Soak Up the Sun, and the toxic positivity and overly animated voice of their bubbly blonde leasing agent leaked through the opening doors of their Altima.

“Hi! I’m Jenny Marshall. How’s it going y’all?”

Marissa and Lexi looked at each other, and Marissa could actually hear her wife’s eyes roll.

“We’re fine.”

“Are y’all ready to see your new apartment? Lexi and Marissa right?”

That’s incredibly presumptuous, thought Lexi.

“It is. Let’s take a look,” said Marissa.

“Right this way.”

Lexi’s phone began to ring, and she was a little embarrassed that her ringtone was Taylor Swift’s Shake it Off. 

“I love that ringtone!” Jenny yelled.

A smile creeped across Marissa’s face for the first time in weeks. Lexi just wished it wasn’t at her expense. Lexi lost a Super Bowl bet to Marissa and the payment was a year of a ringtone of her choosing. Knowing Lexi was somewhat of a music snob, Marissa thought it’d be a good idea to just go the T-Swizzle route.

Lexi saw a familiar 830 area code flash across her Galaxy’s screen. The newly developed knot in her throat tightened like saran wrap over leftover potato salad, and she rushed to slide her red phone icon to the left. When she finally accomplished the task she looked up, and Jenny was unlocking the door to the show model.

The door cracked open and the, let’s call it interesting, choice of decor did little to untie the knot in Lexi’s throat. In fact, it just tied another one in her stomach. She looked around the somewhat dated tour model and lamented what the actual apartments would look like. The sparse scatterings of cheap IKEA furniture served the same purpose that Marissa’s purchase of Spotify plus did in the wake of her depression. They both just took up space.

“Your model is updated with new counters and cabinets,” Jenny said.

“That’s a relief,” said Lexi.

Jenny chuckled and led them into the master bedroom.

“Your closet has been updated as well. In all the live models we got rid of the popcorn on the ceilings, unfortunately the owners don’t want to spend the money on a room that doesn’t generate income.”

“Couldn’t you argue that this room generates income?” Marissa asked, rhetorically.

“You could argue that.”

Marissa followed Jenny into the bathroom and thought she saw someone familiar running through the hallway. She turned quickly to make out the figure, but when she wheeled around, she saw nothing. T-Swizzle began to play again and Lexi rolled her eyes and ignored the call again. This time it was a Virginia number on the caller ID, definitely a spam call. 

Lexi saw Jenny’s lips moving as Marissa ran her hand around the edges of the porcelain garden tub that was installed. The pristine white was a horrific contrast to the aging yellow paint job that started above the three feet of quartz tile. While Jenny’s lips flapped uncontrollably, Lexi’s gaze was fixed upon her partner’s left wrist. Peeking out behind her gray Liz Claiborne shirt, concealed beneath her Calvin Klein women's blazer, were wounds to her wrist. Remnants of her coping for the entire time that their house had been on the market. 

These past weeks had been toughest on Marissa. She lobbied hard to immediately list their house, located ninety minutes outside San Antonio, on the market. They had multiple offers and they were simply waiting on their real estate agent to do  credit checks and verify offers with the lenders. In the meantime, it was just stillness, silence, and re-runs in the Riverwalk Marriott until they found a suitable apartment in the city.

Marissa looked up and saw the look on Lexi’s face. Marissa felt the knot in her wife’s throat. Forever the empath, Marissa’s facade she hid behind for her career in corporate America was a well researched and thoughtfully developed alter ego. Lexi even called her Bizarro Dexter when she had a few glasses of Maison No. 9, Post Malone’s French Rose. Dexter of course is America’s favorite serial killer. In public, a happy go-lucky forensic specialist with a wealth of emotional understanding and depth, but in private a sociopathic anti-hero. Marissa of course was the opposite. At work she always kept her brow furrowed and jaw clenched and pretended she didn’t feel anything. At home...well…her wrist was a canvas to the depth of the very real empathy she couldn’t help but feel.

This is why all of their friends called them the odd couple. Marissa being the duplicitous and bread-winning accountant was a fun contrast to the steadfast and somewhat standoffish creative that helped raise their son they adopted from a squawking newborn, to the vivacious and intelligent little boy that they love today.

“Like this?” Lexi remembered hearing.

“Yeah, just like that. Now use your legs first and flick your wrist like this.” Lexi said.

Snapping her wrist, Jared smiled as he watched one of his moms release a basketball at the top of her mechanically perfect jump shot. That same shot was not only the thing that introduced Lexi to Marissa at the University of Connecticut, twelve years ago, but was the reason for the National Championship ring she wore around her neck on an understated silver chain. Lexi typically tucked it within her bra or underneath her workout top. Jared let his shot go next. Both shots found home and made that satisfying sound that they had bonded over watching a constant stream of San Antonio Spurs games together at home. He loved watching DeMar Derozan hit from mid range, and he was inconsolable when they let him go.

“What do you think Lexi?” She heard, snapping out of her memory.

Marissa knew when her wife was daydreaming. It was a habit she had mixed feelings about. She loved and admired her ability to withdraw from stressors with an ease akin to drawing breath. She hated it when she needed to get things done…like touring apartments and silencing babbling bubbly blondes. 

“Sounds great.”

Marissa’s eyes narrowed as the generic answer was off the mark.

“You think sewage backing up is great?”

Lexi blushed and the knot that had been loosening, tightened up again.

“Jenny, this was wonderful, we’ll call you later today after our next tour.” Marissa said.

Jenny nodded and wished them safe travels. They got back in the car and opted to skip the remaining minutes of Soak Up the Sun, going for a few songs from Bloc Party’s Silent Alarm album instead. They finally found a Sam’s Club station and Marissa stood outside their car, scanned their Sam’s Club QR code on her phone, and began pumping. 

“Where are our seats?” She remembered Jared asking.

“They're in the corporate suite. Momma’s job gives out free tickets sometimes,” she said.

“When I’m in the NBA, you and Thompson can sit courtside,” he said out the window.

Jared referred to his moms by their maiden names to avoid the confusion of who is called mom.

“Who’s paying for the air travel?” She asked.

“I don't know, Harold.  You’re an accountant, figure it out,” he said.

Marissa laughed…until she heard the incessant honking from a red, late 2010s model Mustang, coming from behind her. She snapped back to the present looking at the price display above the gallon read out said $55.30, an arm and a leg for a mere fourteen gallons of gas. Marissa rehoused the nozzle, and they began winding throughout the back corridors of the greater San Antonio area, avoiding the perpetual construction on I-35.

They got through the selected Bloc Party songs and even Hotel California when they pulled into their last tour, further East down Wurzbach Ave. They opened the car and made deliberate steps toward the leasing office. This office was exponentially more welcoming than the last, although it was a little beyond what Marissa wanted to budget for. They opened the large glass doors at the entrance of the cozy colonial office built atop a gentle sloping hill.

They entered the building and weren’t greeted at first. Marissa nodded toward some comfortable looking lobby furniture and waited for their 11:00 am appointment. The time ran by slowly as they sat in silence, an all too familiar sight these days, but right on the nose at 11:00am sharp, an awkwardly shaped rotunt gentleman peaked his head through the lobby entrance and broke the silence.

“Lexi and Marissa?” He asked.

“That’s us,” said Marissa.

“My name is Peter, I’m the property manager at Hidden Oaks: Wurzbach, and I’ll be showing you our Sage suite today. Any questions before we get started?” Peter asked.

Both women shook their heads.

“Let’s go then girls.”

Peter gave them time to get up and then led the way. His fashionable, yet oddly fitting pants hiked up off his Red Wing Oxfords revealing one Hufflepuff sock on his left foot, and one Slytherin sock on the right.

“I like your socks,” said Marissa.

“Thanks girl. I’m a Slytherpuff, no big deal or anything. The best part is, I have a pair just like it at home.” he said.

Both women laughed.

They took a stroll through the grounds, even seeing a fenced in half-court basketball court. Of course Lexi’s eyes were fixated. Peter picked up on it and highlighted it as a sales feature, as any good property manager would.

“The court lights are on every night until 10:00pm, but the fitness center is 24/7.” he said.

Marissa nudged her partner and gave an interested look. This surprised her. Here this place was two hundred dollars above budget, and she was now being sold to by Marissa and Peter.

The three got into the showroom and this one was far more welcoming than the last. There was sturdy furniture in the living room, and the appliances looked like they were made this century. Peter outlined the openness of the kitchen, the valet trash and recycling pickup, and then took them into the master bedroom. There were Dutch shutters on the windows, which was a huge selling point for Marissa, who on the weekends, would routinely sleep in until two pm or so. In other words, it was perfect.

“You like what you see so far?” Peter asked.

“It’s perfect.” They both answered.

“Good deal. One last thing, the second bedroom.”

They rounded the corner out of the master bedroom, went down the real hardwood floors, and took a left into a bedroom decorated for a little boy. On the walls were Tim Duncan posters on the North and East walls. There was a twin size bed with storage underneath. On the west wall there was a Fender Squire and little practice amplifier. The color left Marissa’s face and Lexi grabbed her right hand as tightly as she could to let her know she was there, and they were fine. Silent tears streaked down their faces.

“And of course you can use this as an office, it’s just decorated this way…everything okay girls?”

Marissa couldn’t produce any language, or thought.

“Yeah, we just need some eye drops.” Lexi managed to squeeze that lie through the Gordian knot that had developed throughout the day.

“I am allergic to everything in Texas, I have some in my office.”

Peter’s awkward frame was deceptively fast. They powerwalked back to the office. Behind the fervent pace that Peter set, Marissa followed, tears flowing, and in her hand was Lexi’s strong hand, guiding her through the parking lot.

They got back into the office and Peter offered them a seat in luxurious leather armchairs, with ornate redwood arm rests. The office was analogous with Peter himself, a completely original and discerning person with diverse taste. There was a Pink Floyd poster, framed and signed by Roger Waters, the script read “the hostess with the mostest, love Roger.” There of course was a Hogwarts coat of arms desk toy, some perpetual motion desk toys, and in a case next to a small collection of antique coins was a green ribbon with some writing on it that was too small for Marissa to make out through her tears. The craziest part was the UConn Huskies pennant flag hung above his Pink Floyd poster.

He rigorously dug through his desk drawer and produced some artificial tears. Marissa took them and dropped them in her eyes. Peter noticed Lexi’s eyes fixated on the UConn pennant.

“You like the Huskies?” He asked.

“I went to school there,” Lexi said.

Marissa managed to pull herself together now that her eyes weren’t as puffy.

“She played basketball there,” said Marissa.

“Oh…my…god. When?” He asked.

“2010-2014, but my Junior year I tore my ACL and was a bench player for my Senior year.” 

“You’re Lexi Thompson?”

“Alexis Thompson-Harold,” she said.

“You’re a local legend!” 

“You’re from Connecticut?” she asked.

“Of course! Newtown.”

He noticed Marissa calming down.

“Do you think you guys want to call this place home?” He asked.

Marissa’s newly found vision betrayed her. She looked around. She saw the posters of course, but fixated on the framed green ribbon, and the tears broke out again.

“Aw, girl, what’s wrong?”

Lexi wrapped her lanky left arm around her wife and kissed the top of her head. An incredibly easy feat with her height. She stood her six foot three inch frame up.

“May I?” 

She motioned behind his desk.

“Of course.”

She took a few strides behind the desk and picked up the ribbon and placed it on the desk. It had a date, 12/14/12, in plain white block text.

“That’s for my nephew…others made it out…he didn’t…”

“And for our son…others made it out…he didn’t…”

Marissa wiped away her tears, revealing the coping scars on her wrist to Peter and Lexi. Lexi couldn’t hold up any longer. She could not untie the Gordian knot within her throat, and she began to cry.

“I think they may understand us here baby…”

Peter rushed around the fine mahogany desk and had to jump up to grab Lexi’s neck to hug, pulled it down to his and Marissa’s levels and hugged them as tightly, with as much strength as his awkward little frame could muster.