The Property Manager
"She manages his apartment building in Cedar-Riverside—a thick divorced Somali woman who knows everyone's business. When he reports a maintenance issue late one night, she comes to inspect personally. The repair takes all night."
Sagal knows everything about everyone.
The property manager for the Cedar-Riverside towers. Forty-six years old. Divorced. She handles complaints, collects rent, and keeps the peace in a building full of Somali families.
She's thick.
Two hundred and thirty pounds of authority. Wide hips. Heavy breasts. A presence that commands respect.
I call her at eleven PM.
"My heat isn't working."
"Ilaahay." She sighs. "I'll be there in ten minutes."
She arrives in her bathrobe.
"I live in the building," she explains, checking the thermostat. "Easier to fix things when I'm close."
"Mahadsnid."
"Don't thank me yet." She fiddles with the controls. "This might take a while."
I make tea. She works. The apartment warms slowly.
"You're the only one who's polite," she says eventually. "Everyone else yells. Demands. Threatens."
"That's not right."
"It's exhausting." She sits heavily. "Six years of managing this building. Six years of being everyone's problem solver. No one ever asks how I'm doing."
"How are you doing?"
She looks at me.
"Lonely. Tired. Invisible."
"You're not invisible to me."
"My husband left because I worked too much," she says quietly. "Said I cared more about the tenants than him."
"Did you?"
"Maybe. They needed me. He didn't." She meets my eyes. "No one's needed me since. Not really."
"I need you."
"For heat repairs?"
"For everything."
She sets down her tea.
She kisses me in my cold apartment.
"Xaaraan," she gasps. "I'm your property manager—"
"You're a woman who deserves attention."
"Wallahi?"
I answer by pulling her close.
We make it to the bedroom.
The one she inspected before I moved in. The one she's never been in like this.
She undresses with shaking hands.
Heavy breasts. Soft belly. Wide hips.
"Six years," she whispers. "No one has seen me like this."
"Their loss."
I worship the property manager.
My mouth traces her body—every curve that's been overlooked.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kneel. "Since my divorce—"
I taste her.
She screams.
"ILAAHAY!" Her hands grab my hair. "Six years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—in my building—"
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She screams.
"Alla—so big—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I fuck the property manager.
In my apartment. That she controls.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me.
I pound her.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—"
I let go.
I flood Sagal.
In the building she manages.
We lie tangled together, the heat finally working.
"Macaan," she breathes. "Best maintenance call ever."
"More issues to report?"
"Constantly." She kisses me. "I'll be here every night. For... inspections."
One Year Later
My apartment has the most maintenance calls in the building.
No one knows why.
"Macaan," she moans, as I take her. "My favorite tenant."
The rent is always on time.
The repairs are always personal.