The Eagan Real Estate Agent
"She sells houses to Somali families in the suburbs—a thick ebony divorced woman who knows every listing in the Twin Cities. When he starts house hunting, she shows him properties no one else sees. Some closings are very private."
Fawzia dominates Somali real estate.
Every family moving from Cedar-Riverside to the suburbs calls her first. She knows every listing, every neighborhood, every school district worth considering.
I'm ready to buy.
"Budget?"
"Three hundred thousand."
"Mashallah." She notes it down. Fifty years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of real estate authority. Ebony skin, power suit, the confidence of someone who closes deals. "What are you looking for?"
"Space. Quiet. A yard."
"Leaving the city?"
"Looking for something new."
She shows me properties.
One after another. Too small. Too far. Wrong neighborhood. She's patient through every rejection.
"You're picky," she says after the seventh house.
"I know what I want."
"What do you want? Beyond square footage."
"A home. Not just a house." I look at her. "Somewhere that feels like it belongs to me."
"That's harder to find." She pauses. "But not impossible."
House number twelve is different.
An Eagan rambler. Clean lines, big yard, quiet street. It feels right the moment I walk in.
"This is it."
"You haven't seen the bedrooms yet."
"I don't need to. This is home."
She smiles—the first real smile I've seen from her.
"Let me write up the offer."
"You're unusual," she says, processing paperwork in her office.
"How so?"
"Most buyers need convincing. You knew in seconds."
"I trust my instincts."
"Your instincts are good." She looks up. "About houses, anyway."
"About other things too."
"Ilaahay." She shakes her head. "I'm your realtor. Not your—"
"Not my what?"
"Not your anything." But she's blushing under that ebony skin.
"The closing is next week."
We're doing a final walkthrough. The house is empty, waiting.
"You'll be happy here," she says. "Good bones. Good energy."
"It's missing something."
"What?"
"Someone to share it with."
She stops walking.
"My husband left me for a client."
We're standing in what will be my living room.
"Seven years ago. He was my partner at the agency. We showed a house together. He showed her more than the master bedroom."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm not. Not anymore." She meets my eyes. "But I haven't trusted anyone since. Haven't let anyone close."
"I'm not your husband."
"No. You're worse." She laughs sadly. "You're kind. And patient. And you look at me like I'm not just a saleswoman."
"You're not."
"Then what am I?"
"A woman I want to know better."
"This house needs a proper christening."
Her voice is quiet. We're alone. The keys are already mine.
"What kind of christening?"
"The kind that makes it feel like home." She removes her blazer. "I've sold five hundred houses. Never stayed after closing."
"Stay now."
I worship the real estate agent.
In the house she sold me. Her body is prime property—ebony curves, perfect location, move-in ready. She gasps as I undress her.
"Seven years—" She's trembling. "Seven years since anyone—"
"Welcome home."
Her body is everything I wanted.
Breasts heavy and perfect. Belly soft with years of desk lunches. Hips wide, thighs thick. She's been showing houses without showing herself.
I lay her down on my new floor.
Spread her thick thighs.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams as my mouth finds her. Her hands grip my shoulders.
"Seven years—" She's shaking. "Don't stop—dhakhso—"
I lick her through three orgasms.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—christen your new home—"
I strip. She watches with realtor's eyes.
"Subhanallah—the dimensions—"
"All yours."
I position myself.
I push inside the agent.
She cries out—seven years of professional distance breaking.
"So good—" Her legs wrap around me. "Dhakhso—"
I make love to her on my new floor.
Room by room. We christen every space. She comes twice in the bedroom, once in the kitchen, twice more in the master bath.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Fill this house with feeling—"
I explode inside her.
We lie on my new floor.
"Welcome home," she whispers.
"Stay."
"Wallahi?"
"Wallahi. Stay tonight. Stay always."
One Year Later
Best house I ever bought.
And the realtor never left.
"Macaan," she moans in our bed. "Best closing of my career."
The woman who sold me a house.
The woman who stayed to make it home.
Location, location, love.