Page 134 of Diego

The terrace doors are already unlocked, and I slide one open with what I hope looks like deliberate salesmanship rather than desperation to get away from the scent of coffee.

Cool air hits my face.

I could kiss the architect.

I step outside and gesture toward the view. “You get both exposures from here, and because the neighboring tower sits farther west, you keep the sightlines without feeling boxed in.”

My stomach settles just a little.

I breathe through my nose and continue talking.

The client moves to the railing, asking about the building’s restrictions on outdoor furniture, and I answer from memory. The words come easily because I prepared for this. I know the building. I know the unit. I know the association rules, the recent assessments, the parking arrangement, the storage allocation, the elevator access.

I know exactly what I am doing, which is the only thing that saves me when a wave of dizziness follows the nausea.

It is subtler, but somehow more alarming.

The terrace tilts for one awful second.

I shift my weight and rest one hand against the back of a nearby chair as though I am casually emphasizing the outdoor seating area.

My client turns toward me.

“You all right?”

“Yes.” The answer comes easily because this time I am prepared for the question. “I had a bit of a light lunch. My own fault.”

That is at least partly true. Food has become complicated recently.

Things I normally like now make my stomach turn. Yesterday I opened the refrigerator, caught one whiff of leftover chicken, and closed it again so quickly I nearly took off a finger.

This morning I managed toast.

Okay, half.

My client accepts the explanation and starts asking about the view again, so I guide the conversation back to the property before he can show any more concern.

Within a minute, I am fine.

Or close enough.

The nausea retreats. The dizziness passes. My hands stop feeling strangely light.

I finish the terrace presentation, take him through the primary suite, show him the office, discuss the building’s private entrance and garage access, and answer every question he asks without another stumble.

Totally professional. Completely competent. Absolutely normal.

By the time we return to the foyer, he is already talking about bringing his wife back for a second showing.

“I’ll coordinate with your office and get something on the calendar,” I tell him. “If there are any additional questions you want answered before then, send them over, and I’ll have everything ready.”

He thanks me, shakes my hand, and heads toward the elevator.

I wait until the doors close.

Then I stand alone in the foyer for several seconds as the room slowly spins.

The apartment is finally empty and silent.