On the home tour, John and I stood holding hands and looking at a wall covered in splotches and splatters of plaster so nubby and thick it cast shadows in the late afternoon light.
“What is that?” I wondered. “Did something explode in here?”
“No, it’s texture,” he said. “Someone intentionally sprayed chunks of plaster on the wall.”
“It’s not… nice.” I turned to see if he agreed. We were buying a house together, so we both had to agree.
“It’s godawful,” he said. He reached out and ran his hand over the jagged wall. “But since they ran out of money before they painted, it’s not sealed. Maybe we could wash it off. What do you think?” We turned to survey the room: Subfloor mended with patches of linoleum, windows tinted with dusty reflective film, exposed beams coated with cat hair and plaster. “Could we do…
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