Re: Sonrisa: Hunter R & Cris M
The kid was slurping, sunk down like a ship taking water, and Cris was across from him, spread wide. He wasn't necessarily joking with the thing 'bout garnishing Hunter's paycheck. Or rather, he was—he didn't wanna do it; he prolly wouldn't—pero, it was meant as a threat. It was meant to spur the kid's tongue from its vise, get him talking 'bout whatever it was he needed, whoever it was he owed. But, he knew life on the ass-end of a paycheck. He knew what it was, not even living paycheck-to-paycheck, but paycheck-to-at-least-a-week-before-the-next, nickel and dimed by your own needs for stuff like food and shelter, and that was after bills. He didn't wanna get the kid's power cut, leave him in the cold, nonea that, and he was prolly too soft to go through with it, but he did want Hunter to talk.
A silence, spider-silk in the static humma that diner, was spun brief when the waiter dropped off the food, giving Hunter an aborted nod that the Sheriff stowed away as a detail. He sat back, eyes floating on the flurrya the kid's arms as he worked to set up his plate like it was onea the Wondersa the World, ridiculous and towering.—Cris himself, he didn't touch his food right away. He got friendly with his shake and spoon, and he watched Hunter watch him.
"I know it ain't a joke, huh? You know it ain't a joke. We know it ain't a joke. Let's get that misconception outta the way, huh?" Abandoning silver spoon against glass, he sat forward again, this time to pick up his burger without any kinda care. Cris wasn't shy 'bout how he ate and he sure didn't have the right kinda manners to curb himself. So, he let the meat bleed onto soggy, shredded lettuce stuck to his plate, the whole thing right in fronta his lips and his gaze over it on the kid, on his stacked dinnera steak and eggs. "Listen, you don't wanna tell me, that's fine. I'm gonna give you some cash—for your joke and maybe for a new jacket. And you're gonna come down Saturday to Sam's shop and help me fix that window." A lil impatient, hardly letting himself finish talking, he took a bitea that hamburger and he chewed like he sat—with masculine entitlement. Or maybe it was just stubbornness. "You think that'll work? Don't make me run after you again, huh?"