REGINA -

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Regina - Another Realtor in Rochester

🌟 Editor's Note

Please be advised this content is for mature audiences. Regina Young and “Young Realty” are figments of the authors imagination.

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She walked past me again today — Regina, with her slow steps and those impossibly full lips that seem to hold every unspoken thought in the softest shape.

I have been watching from my coffee shop window as she passes by every morning for her showings.

Her lips looked especially full today, cherry-cherry lips, the kind of fullness that always seems relaxed, never pursed, never tense. It gives her an almost serene expression, as though every house she visits receives a blessing simply by having her cross its threshold.

Everyone in Rochester sees her as just another realtor. Another woman with a key ring, a clipboard, tidy shoes, a calm smile. The city is full of them — women unlocking doors, pointing out crown molding, trying to catch the market before it outruns them.

But something in me knows she isn’t “just another” anything.

There is something romantic in the way she moves, though she never tries to be.
It’s just there… quietly woven into her pace.

She had a key ring in her hand this morning, metal catching the sunlight, but she held it so gently it made even the keys look cherished. Most agents rattle them, swing them, flaunt them. Regina’s stayed still, resting against her palm like something personal — something she whispered to.

She turned toward the brick house on Maple, the one with the climbing ivy. I saw her stop beside the For Sale sign, fingertips brushing the post lightly. She didn’t straighten it or fuss with it; she just touched it the way some women touch the back of a chair before sitting down, with a kind of intuitive respect.I watched her feeling like a secret witness to something tender. The way she approached the house felt less like a showing and more like a meeting between two things meant to understand each other.
A Woman and a Home.

I noticed the way her lips parted in a smile as she looked up at the windows, as if she were greeting the house with a private hello.

It struck me, absurdly, that I wished she’d smile at me like that.

But why would she? To her, I’m no one.
And she — to the rest of the city — is no one special either.

Just another realtor in Rochester.

There’s a grace to the way she holds her clipboard — pressed gently against her body, not gripped. No flapping papers, no frantic phones, no jangling keys in a nervous hand. Just quiet competence wrapped in something tender.

She leaned toward the door, full lips parting just slightly as she read the lockbox code. Even that small moment looked poetic — like a woman whispering a secret into a house’s ear.

There was warmth in her expression — a softness that could make even the oldest walls feel young again.

She doesn’t open doors; she invites them to open themselves.

There’s a lover-like patience in the way she turns a key, slow and careful, never rushing the click of the lock. Watching her, I felt something flutter inside me, something I don’t usually feel for strangers, especially not from across the street.

I wonder if her clients realize how lucky they are, being guided by someone who doesn’t try to conquer a property but listens to it. There’s a softness in her approach that makes even the oldest homes seem to settle in her presence, like they’re relieved to finally be seen by someone who moves slowly enough to notice them.

She disappeared into the hallway beyond the doorframe, steps floating, calm as ever. And just like that, the neighborhood felt a little quieter.

There are realtors who push. Realtors who press. Realtors who perform.

And then there is Regina —
a woman who walks like the houses are watching her,
and somehow makes them feel safe.

I hope she has another showing tomorrow. I like the way the world feels when she’s walking through it. I feel odd watching her like a stranger…

But she isn’t really a stranger anymore, is she?

Every time she walks by, I learn something new — not from her words, but from the way the world around her shifts. Flowers seem to stand taller. Porches look less lonely. Even the air feels warmer, more willing to linger.

The real estate signs she passes sway just a little softer, as if they’re relieved she’s the one guiding their fate.

She stepped inside the house today with that same cloud-light stride, and for a moment, it felt like the doorway held its breath for her. There’s a kind of romance in a woman who can make an entire street tender.

Maybe it’s the way she doesn’t hurry. Maybe it’s the softness she offers everything she touches. Maybe it’s the quiet confidence of a woman who believes homes and hearts open on their own time.

I don’t know what it is exactly.
I just know that every time Regina walks by, something inside me leans forward —
hoping she’ll stop, hoping she’ll look up, hoping she’ll see me watching her through the glass.

She may be just another realtor to everyone else.
but from my window, from the small secret place in me that leans toward her… she is the most beautiful thing to ever walk up a Rochester driveway.

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