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I follow her to her apartment, not liking what I see. The neighborhood is sketchy, and her complex is rundown. She’s obviously putting all her funds into her company and skimping on everything else. I didn’t plan to pressure her into moving in with me already, but it’s clear that’ll have to move up on my list.
Not wanting to offend her, I say nothing about the group of men loitering around the landing of her building or the way she has to slam her hip into her door to get it to open. But when I step inside and get a look at her apartment, I can no longer bite my tongue.
“No,” I say, shaking my head.
There are so many boxes filling the space it has to be a fire hazard. On the right is a living room, but the only reason I know that is because I see a couch underneath a teetering stack of boxes. On the left is the kitchen and while there are no boxes in there, her counters are covered in ingredients for her product. The only free space is right in front of a coffee maker, and it’s a cheap one.
My woman should be drinking the finest espresso, not the gross shit out of a tin can made by a machine she got at Dollar General.
“No? What do you mean?”
“You can’t live here. You’re moving in with me.”
