Re: [Beach cabana: Sam A & Cris M]
Cris knew Sam liked Repose. He liked Repose, 'cause she liked Repose. But, he didn't really like Repose. Not for himself anyway. But, he'd come up under concrete and peeling, lead-based paint. He'd come up with summer frying you like an egg on debased asphalt, but with bodies in the street, the loud, rejuvenating bassa Caribbean music intermixed with Boricua Spanish and slang. He'd come up with people who looked like him, ate what he ate, struggled with what he struggled with in one way or another. Maybe there were ghosts. Maybe there were spirits. But, you put out your glassa water, you lit your candles. Weirdness was woven into the patterna the culture, but it wasn't like Repose. Repose pinched a lil at Cris' feet. And for all his years in Manhattan on the job, he'd always gone home at night (or the next day). He was back in time for frijoles negro and Spanglish. Repose was white. All over. Next to the town's one black guy and a couplea kids, he was runner up in darknessa skin. It was normal for a lotta people out in the world, huh? But not him. So the adjustment was hard sometimes. He missed the stuff he'd taken for granted growing up in the South Bronx—pastelitos, por ejemplo, and the lady by Kingsbridge. He missed knowing people, having his connections 'cause he'd worn a rut into the neighborhood growing up there. He could put his ear to that shitty asphalt and know what was coming.
Which is all to say Repose was different. Not bad, just different. But, the guy tried real hard to like it. He did to a degree. He just didn't feel like he belonged, and that was just something he was gonna hafta get used to.—So he was glad to get away. Not for alla the nostalgic reasons listed above, but also just 'cause it was nice to break outta that shell and leave nacre remnantsa confines behind. He knew what people thoughta the often-violent Hispanic ex-sheriff, twice as old as his baby-mama, and it felt good to just be with Sam.—Soon, anyway. 'Cause he was knocking like un idiota and she was calling out after an Oscar-worthy pause that he could come in. He heard the strumming excitement in her voice, like fingers over the chordsa her voicebox, and he grinned wide enough to hurt his cheeks as he barged on in.
Sam was right there in the lil space. Orange spilled over her soft and beach-worn. Her hair was windblown wilderness, her smile was gappy and broad. She smelled like soap and cloves and sweat, and she was bouncing on scrubby toes. Cris always liked when she bopped like that, 'specially since gringita didn't like wearing bras. (Maybe he was a lil lecherous, huh?) And while he maybe was able to skirt himself back a bit behind the obstructiona the door, once opened, he went for Sam, stopping only to set his box down by the door as he kicked it closed.—Arms wide, he wrapped her up and pulled her up against him with all the excited frenzya un abejorrito brushing intimate against daisy petals. He smelled like aftershave and wind in the hollowa his throat. Sam mighta got somea that, but Cris didn't keep up the hug solo, huh? Nah.
He kissed her cold-lipped, all the honeyed heat coming from his tongue, and he couldn't help but crush her against him. It was stupid, but he felt almost overwhelmed by her and his swelling feelings for her, and he kissed her cheeks too once he pulled back. Thumbs along the apple-shinea her cheekbones and he looked down at Sam with dark eyes fond. "Hey, mami." He grinned. His hands moved from cupping her cheeks down to bare shoulders, down the lengtha her arms. He dipped in to press his forehead to hers. "I missed you."