Re: Sonrisa: Sam A & Cris M
They were both in that spacea wanting to be there for somebody who needed you, while you were being dragged under, folding to your own stuff, paper to gesso—not 'cause you wanted to, or 'cause you were even selfish necessarily, huh? But, 'cause that was the physicsa emotion and trauma. Cris could recognize that. Sam's insistence was iron rod, flinting tongue, for all her lacka volume. He knew she had to feel worse than him, cellophane balled and filling brainpan, crinkling, moving, but nothing behind it, bumps on her head, lifting from skull in swells like purple-peaked mountains beneath wildfire blonde.—The guy watched her as she talked, fought him, saying she fucked shit up, and he almost knew to anticipate that smacka her palm that spattered rainbow over bruises. He reached, and he was gonna take her hand, let the spewa colors slide against his skin, when the baby kicked.
It distracted him, huh? That little movement, reeling perspective back like eyelids fluttering open. Just that, and, Cris wasn't gonna say things felt worth it, but he was glad they were here right now, so they could share this, and he was always fucking amazed by it. He had been with his sisters, Elena. His heart felt squeezed in his chest and the tears that boiled to his lashes were a different make than before, and he was stupid happy about it. A lil breathless, he smiled at Sam, even when she admitted she was scared it meant something was wrong.
"No, baby, that's her." He repeated what his hermanas had said to him when he was a kid, hands on their bellies—what he would tell Teresita, huh? When the time came—: "She's sayin' hi, huh?" He gave another laugh, this one sucking a lil in the wet in swampy chest, sniffling at the enda it. He wanted to just put his head there, ear against navel, and listen, just feel the niñita as she moved. He knew he'd fall asleep, if he did that, the exhaustion still there, still heavy as fluid around joints, and that wouldn't help nobody, leasta all Sam. So, he went back, talked again about what happened.
She looked up at him slow, and he only admitted the stuff 'bout Iris so Sam knew—well, so she knew she wasn't the only person who fucked up. But, he knew she was pinning herself to the moment, not letting herself feel whatever it was she needed to feel 'bout what happened, so she could cradle his face in her hands. He'd be lying if he said he didn't want that, but he knew it wasn't the time. Cris shook his head against those sticky fingers, wetness on the rootsa his lashes spilling over stupid. His breathing was the weighted shallownessa tears and he had to clear his throat to talk—sitting up as he did so, taking Sam with him, all cocooned between knees and chest.
"You weren't tryin' to hurt anybody either, cariño." He told her that as he pulled his fucking shirt up, propping Sam between valleya thighs 'til it was off, and he was bare skin, and he looked over her head at the canvas behind her. Another sniffle. "Paint on me." His eyes dropped back to her. "While we talk, huh?" He lifted his chin, ignoring the slick salt that ran over the colors on his cheeks. "I wanna—I wanna be the canvas, huh?" He tapped her chin with his fingers.