f (foundling) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-01-06 15:55:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *narrative, cristián martin-argüelles |
Narrative: Cris M
Who: Cris Martin-Argüelles & Teresa
What: going home
Where: Marvel, the Bronx
When: the morning after this
Warnings/Rating: none
Everything seemed normal. The day was cold, and Cris sat in his car in the pickup loop of St. Luke's with the heat up and no scarf. He pulled his collar up, almost to his ears, black wool peacoat buttoned precisely, but he didn't bother with a hat. The only problem was—it wasn't normal to be at the school yet. He dragged the keys from the ignition and went inside. It was early. In the front office, he signed Teresa out and waited while she was walked down from her classroom. He couldn't deal with another fight with Elena, so he was taking the girl now, with plans to call her mother from the car.—He waited with a short fuse of impatience—black match: cotton covered in black powder and glue, all cut close to the bone, and sleepiness red around the dark, dark brown of his eyes. The day's worth of shadow was gone from his jaw, scraped clean, and the pert peacoat obscured the fact that he hadn't changed his clothes since leaving the hotel. He wasn't as put-together as usual, but he looked like he was. His hair was brushed and even his smile flashed for the secretary who wanted to make small talk about Teresa and her doctor's appointment. Because if anyone came asking questions, he didn't need this moment to stick out to them. Cris was laughing convincingly with the woman behind the desk when his daughter came through the door, squeaked 'Daddy!' and ran to him, her plaid skirt sticking to her too-thick tights. "Hi, baby." His face was buried in the long strands of her hair, carefully turned away from the secretary. Because he couldn't keep the utter relief from his expression, and he could already feel the heat of tears rising among the cattails of black eyelashes. "Te extrañé, te extrañé." He picked her up and Teresita kissed him, hands on his cheeks. "Te extrañé, Daddy!" He smiled at her, back to the room, taking her in for a moment—like he was making sure all of her was there, really, and blinking any wetness from his eyes, before giving the secretary a wave, and walking out with the little girl in his arms. He was taking her home. She started in on her various adventures from the last week, carrying on as Cris deposited her in the backseat and buckled her in, and still going strong when he turned the engine over and pulled away from the school. There were cartoons, there was pizza and snacks in bed, all kinds of fun things, and Cris looked at her in the rearview mirror, wondering at the absolute love he felt for her and trying to keep his mind numb from an overreach of worry he could feel clawing high along the top knobs of his spine, up the back of his skull, letters scratched into bone: S A M. The stories got them all the way home and into the apartment. After peeling off his coat and shoes, and taking Teresa's bag to its designated spot by the front door, the man looked at his daughter, hands on his hips. "Tengo sueño," he told Teresa. He grinned, truly this time, as he scooped her up under one arm and tossed her over the back of the sofa, her squealing gleefully. Metal tinkled in his pocket. "Keep me safe while I sleep, hm?" He crawled onto the cushions, beneath the messy mix of blankets, the smell of coffee strong in the air—the stale brown liquid stuck still to the kitchen tiles, and she wriggled in front of him, settling in the scoop of space left by his knees and elbow. She leaned back against him as she clicked on the TV, assuring her daddy she'd be right there, if he needed her. 20 minutes would be okay. He shouldn't and, normally, he wouldn't. But he'd wanted to see Teresa—he couldn't sleep without knowing she was okay. And 20 minutes, 20 minutes was fine. His phone alarm was set, due diligence, and the device was placed, prominently, on the coffee table with a reminder too: call Elena. Cris stared at it as he couched his head into the crook of his elbow, fingers running thoughtlessly through the silky black of his daughter's hair. He prayed for it to ring, but lost the thread somewhere halfway through, consciousness overtaken by greedy sleep. The TV was playing a show about how crayons were made, the machinery a hum in the background, behind the narrator's voice, and in that moment, in the limbo between wakefulness and sleep, everything seemed normal. |