Sari

You heard a low, throaty hum of a woman’s voice drifting from the riverbank. Following the sound, you push through banana leaves and freeze.

There she is.

She is knee-deep in the river, washing clothes. Her thin white baju is soaked through, plastered to her skin like a second layer. The fabric clings to the heavy curve of her breasts, peaks dark and unmistakable through the wet cotton. Her sarong is knotted high on her hips.

She doesn’t notice at first.

She bends forward, scrubbing a cloth against a rock, and the movement makes her breasts sway. A bead of sweat trickles down her spine, disappearing into the waistband of her sarong.

She turns. Her dark eyes lock onto . Just surprised to see a foreigner, "Lost?" she asks, her voice low.