Re: Log, South Bronx bar: Luke H & Cris M
Faith. That was something Cris had in abundance at least, huh? Prolly too much. Prolly stupid. He believed too firm in his own will, and, yeah, a lotta the time it came back to bite him in the ass—hard, but he couldn't stop it. Something in him needed the buoya it or something like that, needed the absoluteness Catholics so loved to keep holding on. 'Cause without it, —well, he didn't wanna think 'bout that. He didn't wanna get existential before he drank. That never ended good.
Instead, he had the conversation with Luke still playing black and white in his mind, and he saw similarities 'tween them, in spitea the dividea age. But, there were enough differences Cris felt the kid could offer some insight, huh? Something. After all, of the twoa them, who was happily married. It wasn't the viejo in the camiseta. (He could practically hear his mami yelling about going out in public in just that, but it didn't stop him. It was hot out.)
"To, ah, true love, huh?" It was teasing, and Cris smiled before he took a gulpa creamy-headed beer. He licked his lips as he set the glass back down and eased into his elbows on the bar. "Let's hope. You never know with this place—" It was clear he meant the hotel more than he meant the Bronx. "So, I'm not so good with small talk. Tell me 'bout your wife. Your daughter's like her? How'ssat?"