Jamaica's Hope

The air in Jamaica’s studio apartment was thick with the scent of lavender and something else… something cleaner, brighter, than the stale cigar smoke and cheap cologne that usually clung to my clothes. It was a different world, this place. Sunlight streamed through a window that actually faced the sky, not just a grimy brick wall. Plants, actual living, breathing plants, sat on a windowsill, their leaves a vibrant green that made my eyes feel good. This was Jamaica’s world, a world I only got to dip my toes into when she’d pull me in, like I was a stray cat she was trying to coax inside.

She was humming, a soft, off-key tune that was more like a happy sigh, as she fiddled with some knobs on a piece of equipment that looked like it belonged on a spaceship. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, a few rebellious strands framing her face, and she had that little crinkle between her eyebrows when she was concentrating. It made her look serious, but also kinda cute, like she was about to solve the world’s problems with a soldering iron.

“Almost there, Kong,” she said, not looking up. Her voice was like warm honey, smooth and sweet. “Just gotta get this track to peak. You’re gonna love this.”