quicklog: connie and cris awkward blind date
[The last time Cris had been in an arcade was at least a decade ago, if not two. But, he'd never been one for staying inside, if he could be out, and, as messy and horrible and ugly as it could be, he'd never preferred a virtual world to that that blossomed before his eyes, at the toucha his hands, skin and sweat. Dork, geek, he'd never been called anya those things, and the places he'd hung out after school were nothing like the little place that sat where Second Street tee'd into Main. Nah. No sticky floors, plastic prizes, pixels, quarters, soda. It was some nameless apartment in the 'jects, too-loud rap, baggies and scales, braggadocio in quick-and-dirty Spanish. And even after alla that, after he went from that to badge, rank and file, Cris took a football to the park. He went to the gym in the mornings. He liked to sweat.—Which wasn't to say he wasn't looking forward to the arcade, huh? He was, 'cause it was different and, if he was honest, he was expecting to get Sam in the bathroom and fuck her after a couple roundsa Ms. Pac-Man.
I guess that brings us back to sweat though, huh?
Still, since he thought this was a date too, he was a lil more spruced up than he mighta otherwise been. A gray jacket and white t-shirt were all he wore to battle the elements from his car to the arcade. (He drove, 'cause Sam was already gone by the time he left and he figured she wouldn't wanna walk home.) Just shaved, his hair dark from a quick shower, and he thought he looked pretty okay, huh? Add a lil bitta cologne to the columna his throat and he was good to go. As far as Connie's dream date went, well, he had muscles, but that was about it. Not that he knew that.
Nah, 'cause he'd been set up, see? He didn't know it yet, but he would.
The Sheriff entered the denna the place expectant, no badge or nothing on him, since he was taking the night off, and he rubbed warmth into his hands as he looked 'round for Sam. Near the front, where you could turn in tickets for prizes, a girl was bent in a dress that was a reference to something, and Cris watched her brief, more a glance, since he knew she wasn't Sam. When he saw the bleach-brighta the locks though, he paused.] Connie? [He smiled at her, a lil flummoxed, and came closer, finger scratching at damp black curls shorn close.] You ain't seen Sam, have you? [He gave her dress a look-over, and that guapo smile warmed.] You waitin' for somebody special? [In about two seconds, his bubblea blissful ignorance would pop, but for now, it was buoyant as ever.]