“I hope this doesn’t alarm you,” said the realtor, “but there is something I haven’t told you about this apartment.”
Alarm me? How bad could it be? The place was perfect - dishwasher, ceiling fans, in-unit washer/dryer, all granite, what’s not to like? “Well, there’s something I haven’t told you about this apartment. It’s that I love it, and I’ll take it.”
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLJnZmbXIBUv4k8dWJZJgXdQCJhiDcFpZY1vfOCea-d-O9oH7XCEqoyVve3bhmpy-P8-Fak7BZivGPuPkPPNnNvPu87lO0jo_huVZyHjZS7ndc3o4i47rfduRGN0aTb8D_0pDI/s200/apartment+blueprint.png)
I put my hands over my ears and smiled. “Just give me the fucking contract.”
She looked at me and paused, then began to mouth some words, so I closed my eyes and started spinning around. Eventually I lost consciousness.
I awoke to a stinging smack across my face and yelling of my name. She’d apparently poured cold water on my head, and some of it was in my mouth. I spit it out like a fountain as I sat up, for drama.
“Who are you?” I asked, as if in a daze. But I sort of laughed after I said it
“Nice try. The thing you need to know about the apartment is --”
“I love you.” I was looking at the ceiling fan in her glasses.
“What?”
“You heard me, you crazy old hag, I love you. Marry me. Marry me now.”
That did it. She started smiling and saying some different stuff, and I went back to thinking about the granite and how nice it would be. No one was going to ruin this apartment for me. It was perfect.
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