Dream of You

Honey, Honey [1]

ꫝડꪀꫝꪶ𝕥ꪶρ𝕫ꪑ

The bliss of the warm fresh water washing away the saltiness of the sea that trickles down Camila's skin is always reminiscent of her early days as an enthusiast of water sports and the sea, cherishing each drop of the ocean and aiming to protect it with her life. Her bubbly heart makes her smile, as she looks up at the shower head, splattering and wetting her hair.

The lavender of the soap nourishes each strand, smoothing them to appeal to the fingers that run through them. Nevertheless, the romance of her shower is short-lasting, interrupted with the gust of wind rushing past her body that stands outside the periphery of the shower. She hisses, running water over her arm, feeling the cool evening Portuguese air send a wave of goosebumps across her body.

No matter how glorious their holiday cottage is, with its bath and pool and outdoor shower – outdoor showers will never defeat a bath because they do not keep you warm. Looking around, Camila runs her fingers over her body, lathering it with soap as she stands there in her dusty rose swimsuit, inspecting the greenery surrounding the open shower, and the texture of the rock floor. Smiling, Camila mentally thanks her parents for bringing her on this trip.

It was a trip that apparently her parents did every ten years with their friends. The last time she came, she was only ten, unaware of anyone and anything. Now, a decade later, at the age of twenty, Camila has made the quick realisation that this time around, she is to prompt conversations and indulge in adult talk. Groaning, she continues her silent shower, running her fingers over her arms.

She thinks about how she has a dinner she needs to get to; a dinner hosted for all the family friends that have joined this trip in the Faro district of Portugal. They are extravagant with their choices, renting out cottages (almost like small villas) for each family and hosting them with services which take them to the beach that is a ten-minute walk away. Camila was quick to take up that offer, leaving everyone behind and hopping onto her own adventure. She flirted with a guy to have him lend her his windsurfing board for an hour, leaving her amongst the waves of the sea and the strong taste of salt in her mouth and hair.

Thus, here she is, scrubbing away the remnants of her activity, preparing to smell luxurious for dinner by almost emptying out a rather fragrant soap of flowers.

In her midst of concentration, Camila almost misses the rather desperate calls for her name. (Well, to be honest, with the low octave and loud voice of that calling her name, it's rather hard to miss.) "Camila! Camila Cabello!" Camila frowns, knowing that it is the voice of neither of her parents nor is it the voice of her eighteen-year-old brother.

Shutting off the shower, she tips her head back. God? "Hello?" Camila calls out, with a great degree of uncertainty. Maybe she is hearing things. As her fingers reach to switch on the shower again, another call cuts in, making her shriek and jump.

"Camila! Hey, your parents are calling you for dinner! YOU'RE LATE!" the voice from the other side of the wall, behind the cottage yells.

Eyes growing wide in pure embarrassment, Camila scrambles to cover herself up, grabbing her phone and checking the time to see that it is nearing nine o'clock and dinner is at half seven. Her teeth sink into her lower lip, fingers curling into the towel at the swell of her breast, holding it closer to her as if to cover herself of the embarrassment that is currently flooding up to her chin.

"Uhm!" yells Camila, eyes blinking furiously, hoping the quickness of them just might allow the connections in her brain to process faster. What does she do? Keep him out? "I'll be a minute!"