The Perfect Place

“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.”

“I’m glad you’re so enthusiastic, but you really should hear this --”

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.


“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.