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My favorite takeout, Charlies.
I looked at him.
“You remembered?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I shrugged.
He looked around.
“Place starting to look good.”
“Starting?”
“You still got boxes upstairs.”
“Mind your business.”
“You could’ve avoided all this moving shit.”
I already knew where this was going.
“My house got six bedrooms.”
“Levin.”
“Seven bathrooms.”
“Nigga, no.”
“How the fuck I got six bedrooms and seven bathrooms and somehow ain’t got enough room for you?”
“Because I said so.”
He stared at me.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
He sucked his teeth.
“Waste of fucking bedrooms.”
I laughed.
“You’ll survive.”
He would.
Because this was my house.
My lease.
My space.
Maybe one day that would change.
