Her lids were heavy, stinging with each attempt she made at opening her eyes more than halfway. The bright light streaming through the window forced Camila to shut them, wincing when it sent a throbbing just behind her eyes. Her whole body felt like deadweight, and her muscles ached when she lifted her arm to shield herself from the invasive sunlight. She swallowed dryly, memories from the previous night coming back to her in flashes just behind her closed lids.
The crowded, dimly lit theatre.
Lauren staring at me.
The neon pink street, and the scantily clad girls.
Lauren chasing after me.
The quaint coffee shop, and the small red couch.
Lauren.
Her lips.
Her eyes.
Mere inches from me.
But all of this was surrounded by a thick haze that blurred certain details, and made her question the validity of some of the memories. One thing she did recall was the feeling of warmth and electricity, then rushing air and flashing lights. This memory confused her as it came with no image, just an intense but distant feeling. The more she dwelled on it, the more the throbbing behind her eyes intensify.
What the hell did I smoke last night?
Grabbing a pillow, she rolled over in protest, but collided with something solid and entirely too warm. She blindly reached out a hand and ran it across smooth skin, eliciting a faint sigh from above her. Camila blinked the sleep out of her eyes and set her gaze upon soft thighs, and long legs crossed at the ankles. Retracting her wandering hand, she trailed up to tiny bed shorts that left little to the imagination, then to a pair sparkling emerald eyes.
I could get use to this.
"Rise and shine, roomie," Lauren chirped from her spot on Camila's bed, her back resting against the headboard. She cradled a steaming mug in her hand as she smiled down at the bleary brunette.
"Forgot you're a morning person," Camila groaned, stretching and landing back on the soft mattress with a dull thud. "Hold up, were you watching me sleep?"
"Of course not," she blurted, before dropping her eyes and clearing her throat. "Umm, if by watching, you mean prodding you every few minutes to make sure you were still alive, then yes," she amended nervously, bringing the cup to her lips. "Coffee?"
"No thanks, the smell churns my stomach," Camila replied, brushing off the girl's strange response. She rolled over, tucking the pillow under her chin and looking up at her before continuing. "It actually reminds me of my father," she murmured, her voice muffled by her pillow. The girl shot her a confused look, but her brow softened after a moment in understanding.
It wasn't a big deal, and the smell didn't repulse her by any means. It was just an association she kept close to her dad. One of him late at night in his office with the door closed, going over doctor's reports and charts, cup after cup. She remembers edging the big oak door open when she was little and asking him to read to her, or come tuck her in. But she was always met with the same rejection, the same 'in a minute' or 'get your mother to'. In the end it was always Joseph, her older brother, who got the job of kissing her goodnight, because even her own mother couldn't spare a few minutes from her social climbing club of housewives to pay her any time.
So for Camila, it was coffee and the sickly sweet smell of her mother's perfume that brought back memories of her childhood.
Now that was a smell that repulsed her.
