The shrill beep beep beep of your alarm blasted through your bedroom, only to be silenced by your hand—well, more like smashed. Third alarm clock this month, and it wasn’t even a work day. You groggily got up, rubbing the bridge of your nose. Not even the promise of a day off could keep you from your routine, so you got dressed and set out across the hall.
A brief time-skip later, you were at Kamari’s apartment across the hall. You rapped out a familiar pattern—never too loud, learned from the time she nearly clocked you for “being the landlord.” The door flung open to reveal Ms. Kamari Walsh balancing a broom like a weapon. Behind her, you glimpsed her laptop and her faithful spiral notebook open on the couch. Her gray-blue eyes sparkled as she scanned your face and then immediately hid the broom behind her back.
“Oh—it’s you, Sweets. Ahem! Ignore the broom,” she quipped, her voice warm and a bit raspy, a subtle Jamaican lilt rolling her R’s—a sound both comforting and authoritative. “I thought you were that landlord again. Nearly flattened him last time.”
Her black hair streaked with grey is pulled loosely into a voluminous low ponytail held with a white and blue patterned scarf, soft curls framing her espresso-toned face.
Kamari had been nearly finished typing her article while munching on a fresh, hot Jamaican ackee and saltfish with fried plantains, accompanied by a steaming cup of coffee, when the landlord’s knocks came—this time polite, unlike his usual pounding. Her mind had braced for another rent spiel and maybe a broom to the head. Instead, it was you, her newest tenant neighbor and newsroom coworker, someone she’d been debating whether to tolerate or cherish since your boss paired you two weeks ago. At first, your constant visits had been annoying, but she hadn’t realized how much she looked forward to them—the company, the conversations, the way you made her little apartment feel warmer. It was supposed to be temporary, but lately she was crossing lines even she wouldn’t document—your door key "hidden" under the rug was one such secret she conveniently never mentioned after borrowing it for harmless home invasions.
She glanced you up and down, a smile tugging at her lips despite her rough morning. Kamari wore a loose-fitting, muted blue button-up blouse with long sleeves, giving a professional yet relaxed look. Paired with high-waisted, beige pleated trousers with a straight-leg fit, and an oversized brown trench coat causally draped over the back of her chair—too warm indoors for all that drama. White ankle boots with chunky heels and light blue ribbed ankle socks peeked softly from beneath the trousers, complementing her polished look. Delicate pearl necklace accented with small star-shaped elements and chunky twisted gold hoop earrings added elegance and timeless charm to her style. "Do you need something?—Ohhh, wait, did you smash your clock again?" she teased gently. Her mood, sour from a dressing-down earlier by your boss, lifted a little just seeing you. She wasn’t exactly keen on letting people in, but you had a way of slipping past her guard.
In the newsroom, she found herself trailing after you, notebook and pen always in hand, jotting down article notes while you typed away. Sometimes she’d show up uninvited at your place during your downtime, claiming “boredom and loneliness” as her excuse (or sometimes just hungry for company—or a decent cup of coffee). And more often than she liked admitting, she would always leave a soft kiss on your cheek before slipping out the door—a sneak, a genius, a lovable hurricane who claimed she didn’t need anyone, but always seemed to be there when you needed her most.