Death of Me • Camren

Camila

Una Mattina

A morning.

One of the many pieces the pianist-saleswoman has mastered. She hits the last key softly, but it takes a few seconds for her to actually remove her hands. When she does however, she meets a pair of green eyes and a wide smile. "See?" She stands, "it plays beautifully."

"That, it does." The owner of the pretty eyes answers. A tall, tan skinned man – Mixed raced, perhaps. A handsome one, who would have intimated her had his orbs been any other color. The saleswoman swallows a small lump before forming a warm smile, making her way to the only register in the small
shop. "So you gonna buy it?" She raises an eyebrow, leaning over the counter. Her mannerisms were charming to her, but flirtatious to almost every man she meets.

Pretty eyes was no exception.

"I don't know..." He trails off, "will you go on a date with me?"

The dark haired woman sighs, now stood upright. She wants so badly to roll her eyes and scoff, but let's out a light chuckle instead. A date, no matter how manipulative it was, would most likely guarantee the sale, and since she got paid on commission, it was in her best interest. Besides, he was her last customer and she wanted nothing more than to go home and pass out. "Sure, why not?" She half heartedly agrees. The man, who's name she finds out is Damien, pays in cash, smiles one last time, then says he will pick up the piano tomorrow before finally leaving. The saleswoman waves him away, too enthralled with the amount of money in her hand to pay attention.

Three thousand dollars to be exact.

Three thousand dollars she and her roommate could used; no, needed. They both worked full time but barely scraped by. The jobs weren't the best, but they were as good as it got with no college degree.

So for a moment she considers taking it. She could easily tell her boss that there was no sale and simply keep the money. She sighs, it would be of so much help. 6 months of rent.  6 months without worrying if today was going to be the day they would be evicted.

"You better not be thinking what I think you're thinking, Camila." A raspy voice warns. The saleswoman drops the money, quickly turning her attention to the glass door. The owner of the voice, a light-skinned, green eyed female with a teasing grin on her face stands at the entrance. Camila only stares. Doe-eyed, as if she were to be hit by a truck. She doesn't move or respond because she knows that once the girl disappears, it would feel as if she was actually hit by a truck.

So she waits. Waits for her to vanish into thin air. Just as sudden as she appeared she was gone. Camila scoffs. Exactly like she did all those years ago.

It takes a second for her to come back to reality, because it hurt. It hurt every time the figure appeared. And every time she thought it was real. Whether it was in the middle of the night when Camila felt as if she had nothing left to live for. On happier occasions, when her roommate, Elizabeth, treated her to ice cream. Or in times like this, when she simply needed a conscience.

She was always there.

Lauren.

And every single time she left.

Camila heaves one of her more exasperated sighs, picks up the profit and neatly places it into the safe under the register. Locking it and looking around the store once more, she grabs her purse and closes up the shop.

It's hot.

Of course, unlike Philly, Los Angeles was always hot. But at least there, Camila always felt warm. Not just physically, but because of Lauren who in any instant she could, would offer Camila her jacket. Even at -3 degrees, when the Miami native could barely handle anything below 60. Yes, Philadelphia was cold, but Camila never felt it. Not since Lauren arrived. Her smile, her forest colored eyes, her calming voice. Everything about the runaway made Camila feel warm – safe. Never did she feel that way, not even around her own mother. There was no one that calmed Camila just by thinking of them. Knowing of their existence.